my heart is in the puppet box and satan pulls the strings
by Laura of Maychoria
Summary: Tim's family and friends react to what Tim's father did to him. Sequel to "baby's in the cradle and the devil's in my head"
1. Alfred Pennyworth

The security lights turned on outside, drawing Alfred's attention. He looked out the window and saw Bruce crossing through the yard from the direction of the Drake property. He was carrying Tim in his arms, the boy's face hidden against his shoulder and both arms wrapped around his neck. Tim was barefoot, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and what looked like a pair of boxers. Bruce's face was somehow both grim and triumphant.

Alfred hurried to open the side door and greet them. "Master Bruce! What on earth...?"

Bruce gave him a strained smile as he stepped inside. "Is the guest room Tim used to live in aired out? He's going to be staying with us from now on."

"From now on?" Alfred closed the door behind him and hurried to get in front and lead the way up the stairs to the bedrooms. He couldn't help looking back over his shoulder, trying to study Tim. The boy did not have any obvious marks of injury that he could see.

"He can't stay with his father." Bruce's voice, too, held a mingling of grimness and triumph. "It's not safe for him there anymore."

The dread that had been building in Alfred's stomach ever since he'd received Tim's strange texts deepened and sharpened. He said nothing else until they reached the guest room in question, where he opened the door and turned on the lights, then turned down the covers and went to open a window. The room had not been aired out recently, no, but it was clean and well-kept, as every room in the manor was. Alfred took pride in his attention to detail.

He turned back to see that Bruce had set Tim down on his feet and placed the duffle bag he'd been carrying on a chair. Bruce was unpacking the duffle and putting things away, moving with determined efficiency. Tim seemed unsteady on his feet, looking around in a bit of a daze. Alfred crossed to him and put his hands on his shoulders. "My boy, are you all right? What happened?"

Tim stared up at him with wide eyes. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Tears welled up in his eyes, which sharpened the alarm Alfred was feeling even further. Tim looked to Bruce, his expression helpless and pleading.

Bruce had paused unpacking and was looking back at him with naked sympathy. "Do you want me to tell him for you?"

Tim nodded, and Alfred looked to Bruce, though he did not let go of the boy's shoulders.

Bruce took a breath and squared his shoulders. "Tim's father beat him with a belt. Severely. I will not have it. I am resuming the guardianship I held while Jack was comatose, but this time I'll be making it permanent. If Jack will not voluntarily terminate his parental rights, I'll sue for custody. I hope he'll see sense and make it as easy on Tim as possible and not drag it out in court, though."

Alfred's vision whited out. The next thing he was aware of, he was striding purposefully down the hallway, and Bruce was yelling behind him. "Alfred! Al! Where are you going?"

"To get my shotgun!" Alfred yelled back, nearly speechless with fury.

Running footsteps, and a hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. Bruce, white in the face. "Al, Alfred, please don't. I understand your anger, believe me, I do. But going over there with a shotgun and threatening Jack Drake will only make things worse. That's why I didn't beat him to a pulp myself. We can't give any pretense for him to call the police and claim victim status, saying that we assaulted him or kidnapped his son or anything like that."

Alfred paused and took a breath. He could see the sense in Bruce's words, though he didn't have to like it. Not one bit. "Master Bruce, this is unconscionable. That poor child..."

"I know, I know." Bruce grimaced, showing his teeth, the rage behind his eyes. "And I know how much you love Tim. You two have spent a lot of time together while I've been...elsewhere. But you're not going to do any good for Tim by getting arrested and taken to jail. Just...let me handle Jack. Please, Alfred. I need you here. So does Tim."

Alfred took a breath, then another one. His fists had been clenched, and now he slowly made them relax. He nodded shortly. "Very well. I will...refrain from shooting Jack Drake. For now."

Bruce grinned crookedly and squeezed his shoulder. "Thank you. That's all I ask." He tilted his head back toward Tim's room. "Shall we go?"

Back in Tim's room, the boy was not in the room, but the bathroom door was shut and Alfred could hear the sink running. A few seconds later, Tim emerged from the bathroom. He gave them both a hesitant smile, then walked slowly and stiffly over to the bed and lay down on his stomach, burying his head in the pillow.

Now Alfred could see the dark bruises and welts on the backs of his legs under the edge of his boxers, above his knees. He could only imagine that the wounds continued up under his clothes. He had to close his eyes and clench his fists again, visions of taking his trusty shotgun to Jack Drake dancing through his head.

Bruce had gone back to unpacking the duffle bag, occasionally asking Tim where he would like this or that item to be placed. Tim answered in monosyllables, his voice drained of energy. Textbooks and laptop went to the desk, hygiene items went to the top of the dresser, clothes went inside it. Bruce had even grabbed a few more personal items, like a stack of CDs that Alfred knew were among Tim's favorites and a worn hoodie that he hung over the back of a chair in easy reach of the bed.

Alfred felt a bit ashamed. He ought to be the one unpacking Tim's things and tidying up for him. But Bruce seemed to appreciate the activity, finding pleasure in being able to do something tangible for Tim's comfort. The poor boy still seemed to be somewhat in shock, accepting what was happening to him without many words on his own behalf.

After watching for a few minutes, Alfred crossed to the bed and bent down next to Tim's head. He reached out and petted his hair gently, and Tim turned his head to look at him. His eyes were no longer welling with tears, but his expression was beyond weary, jaded and a little vacant.

"Would you like some hot chocolate, Master Tim?" Alfred asked. "Perhaps a snack?"

Tim hesitated, then nodded. "Hot chocolate would be good," he said softly. "I don't want any food, though."

"All right." Alfred stroked his hand over his head one more time, then rose to his feet. He looked to Bruce. "I'll also give Master Dick a call, shall I?"

Bruce looked relieved that he wouldn't have to be the one to do that. "Yes, please do." He paused. "Actually, you'd better tell him to just come to the manor. This is news that should be given in person. I don't want him going after Jack Drake, either. Not until I've had a chance to talk to him."

Alfred nodded. "Very sensible, Master Bruce."

He went downstairs and set a saucepan of whole milk on the stove to heat with a cinnamon stick and a splash of vanilla essence. This situation called for true drinking chocolate, not that dry powdered mix that the young masters indulged in when they were in a hurry. He picked up the house phone and dialed Dick's personal phone while the milk warmed.

The call went to voicemail, which was not a surprise. It was still within the hours when criminals and vigilantes were on the street, especially young vigilantes with much to prove. Bruce had wrapped up his patrol slightly on the early side because Alfred had called him back.

"Master Dick, this is Alfred. Please come to the manor at your earliest convenience. Today would be preferable. It involves Master Tim."

He paused, acknowledging how that would sound to Dick. He didn't want to terrify him, but he did want to press the urgency of the situation onto him. Tim needed Dick's support right now. He needed all of their support, but Dick was especially good at meeting Tim where he was, lending a listening ear and drawing him out.

"Master Tim has been hurt, but it's not life-threatening. Please do not race here and put yourself in danger. Major changes are afoot, and your presence would be appreciated, not least by Master Tim. I hope all is well with you, and I look forward to seeing you soon."

There, hopefully that would summon Dick as quickly as possible without causing him undue distress. Alfred hung up the phone and went to chop up the dark chocolate for Tim's drink.

When it was done, he took the drinking chocolate up to Tim and stayed with him while he drank it. The poor boy had a great deal of difficulty moving, but Bruce and Alfred were both there to help prop him up with as many soft pillows and cushions as they could gather. Tim lay against the pillows and slowly sipped from the mug, his eyes drooping, while Bruce sat next to him on the bed and held his shoulder in one large hand.

Alfred sat on a chair next to the bed, leaning forward with his hands clasped over his knees. He would do anything to take away Tim's pain, and it bothered him greatly that he could not do so. But at least the hot drink and the company seemed to be helping.

When Tim finished, he handed the mug back to Alfred and rolled painfully onto his side facing Bruce. He ended up with his head resting on Bruce's thigh, shoulder propped against his hip. Bruce rested his hand on the back of his head and gently stroked through his hair. "Remember that bank robber you were so worried about? Would you like to know what happened with him?"

Tim hummed and nodded sleepily, going boneless as Bruce told the story. Bruce smiled as he talked, enjoying sharing what turned out to be a genuinely funny tale. Tim's shoulders shook with little giggles at the right places, and he pressed himself harder into Bruce. His breath was even and calm. Bruce finished the story and started another one, some harmless anecdote from early in his career as a crimefighter.

Before long, Tim was asleep. Alfred rose to his feet and carefully rearranged the covers that had gotten rumpled around him. He pulled them up to Tim's shoulders and tucked them around his torso, taking care to avoid letting too much weight rest on his bruised and welted skin.

"Will you be staying here, Master Bruce?"

Bruce nodded. "In case he needs help with something," he said softly.

"Very well. Please do call me the instant either of you require anything."

"I will, Alfred. Sleep well."

But Alfred knew he would not sleep. Not tonight. Even though dreams of vengeance would have been sweet.

He left the room and went back downstairs. He fetched the shotgun from the mantle in the old den that hadn't been used for years. He sat in an armchair by a window facing the Drake property and settled in, feeling his old bones come to rest, his heart beating fiercely in his chest. He rested the shotgun across his knees, his hand on the stock. And he sat there, watching, until the sun rose and the new day began.

No one would lay a finger on the sweet young boy who had to come mean as much to him as Dick and Jason ever had. Never again. Not while Alfred lived.


	2. Dick Grayson

Dick didn't check his phone when he got back to his apartment from being Nightwing, just fell into bed and fell asleep seconds after stripping out of the suit. So he saw the voicemail the next morning as he was getting ready for work, head buzzing on about three hours of sleep. He considered ignoring it, but then he saw that it was from the landline at the manor, which meant it was probably from Alfred. You never ignored a voicemail from Alfred.

After listening to the cryptic message, Dick was left frowning, staring at the wall as he tapped his fingers on his kitchen counter. It really sounded like Alfred was refraining from telling him to come instantly, trying to downplay whatever was going on so Dick wouldn't speed the entire way. That, of course, just made him want to speed the entire way. He was a cop, so he could get away with it. (Okay, not really, but it was the kind of joke that would make Tim laugh.)

Speaking of, this was about Tim, which had all of Dick's instincts screaming at him. He hadn't gotten talk to the kid for a couple of weeks, and he really missed him. It felt like just a few days ago that Tim had almost died of a plague _again,_ which heightened his paranoia regarding his pseudo little brother even more. Alfred had said Tim was hurt, but not seriously, but also that major changes were taking place, and Tim would appreciate his presence, so... What the heck?

Yeah, there was no question. Dick was calling in a day off and heading straight to Wayne Manor. He would not speed, in deference to Alfred. At least, not much.

A couple of hours later, he was stepping in the door at the manor and stomping his feet on the mat. "Alfred? Alfie? You around?"

Alfred came around the corner almost instantly, relief sliding across his face. "Master Dick! It's good to see you."

"Hey, Alf." Dick gave him a big hug, and Alfred patted his back, smiling fondly. "Sorry I didn't call ahead and tell you I was coming. I just sorta jumped in the car and drove. After calling in a personal day at work, of course."

"No, no, I'm glad you're here. The sooner the better, truly." The relief in Alfred's voice really was deep. It was a bit concerning.

Dick pulled back, frowning, and took a closer look at him. Alfred looked exhausted, bags under his eyes and normally impeccable appearance just the slightest bit disheveled. It was like he hadn't slept all night, but that wasn't possible. Alfred was far too wise to do something like that.

"Alfred, what's going on?" Dick asked seriously, his cheer at seeing Alfred fading away. "It's something to do with Tim, I got that much. Is he here today? Not in school or at home? Did his dad not get back from his book tour?"

Jack Drake had been supposed to return from his trip abroad yesterday. The last time Dick had talked to Tim, he'd been missing his dad and looking forward to seeing him again. Even without being in a coma, it felt like Jack was rarely around when Tim needed him, which sucked.

Alfred hesitated. "Master Tim is here, yes. He's...recovering. He's been rather badly hurt, I'm afraid. Though as I said, it's not life-threatening. But he..." Alfred sighed and shook his head. "Oh dear. I didn't expect this to be so hard to explain."

"Alf." Dick gave his shoulder a squeeze. His chest felt tight, pinching in a way that shortened his breath. What the hell was going on? Had Tim been diagnosed with a disease or something? Cancer? Leukemia? Why was it so hard for Alfred to talk about? It would be just Tim's luck to contract some stupid normie disease after surviving the freaking plague. _Twice._

Dick looked around. "Is Bruce around? Maybe I should get the story from him."

"He had to go into Wayne Enterprises for a few hours, though he's going to keep the day short. He has other meetings he needs to attend, with lawyers and..." Alfred closed his eyes briefly, then nodded sharply and waved for Dick to follow him. "Come. Master Tim is resting in the family lounge."

The family lounge was a cozy, comfortably furnished room not far from the family kitchen, which was where Bruce and Alfred and other members of the Wayne family took their meals, as opposed to the formal dining room and main kitchen used for parties and gatherings. Dick had spent many lazy afternoons as a child and teenager working on his homework in that lounge, doing puzzles or playing board games with Bruce, or using the furniture in ways it was not meant to be used.

When Dick crossed the threshold of the room, he immediately smelled the sharp, wintergreen scent of the analgesic pain cream Bruce favored. It set his teeth on edge, a reminder that Tim was injured in some way. The boy himself was lying on his side on one of the biggest, comfiest sofas, half curled up with his eyes closed. A thick afghan was draped over him in a way that told Dick that Alfred had done it, not Tim himself.

Alfred crossed the room to kneel at Tim's side and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Master Tim, Master Dick is here to see you."

Tim started at the touch, eyes flying open. He started to push himself up, then hissed in pain and lay back down. "Dick?" Despite his obvious discomfort, his voice was hopeful, almost eager.

Dick stepped up behind Alfred and gave him a cheerful wave. "Hey, Timbo. I heard you've got something going on that I needed to hear about. How are you doing?"

To his shock, Tim went limp on the sofa, blinking against a sudden wash of tears. "Oh...yeah." It was like he'd forgotten whatever it was, and now Dick's simple question had brought it all flooding back to him. That pinched feeling in Dick's chest got sharper.

He looked at Alfred. "Okay," he said solemnly. "I think you should just tell me what's going on."

Alfred looked at Tim as if silently asking his permission. Tim nodded, and Alfred looked at Dick. He looked old, suddenly, in a way he'd never seemed before, his face craggy and drawn, his eyes haunted. "Master Tim's father...hurt him. Beat him severely with a belt, to be precise. Master Bruce found out last night when he went over to their house. He came back carrying Master Tim in his arms and declared that he will be staying with us from now on, because it's not safe for him to live with his father anymore. That's why he's meeting with lawyers today."

"Oh." For a moment, Dick couldn't think. Couldn't feel. He felt frozen where he stood, fire and ice overcoming him in wave after wave. This wasn't right. It wasn't right. It couldn't possibly be right.

Alfred rose to his feet and moved back to stand in front of Dick. "If Master Bruce were here, he would request that you do not go after Jack Drake. Not until he's had a chance to talk to you. Your anger is understandable, but we need to take care with how we interact with him, at least until Master Tim is completely safe and the question of custody is settled."

"Oh. Sure." Dick's voice sounded distant to his own ears. He understood that Alfred and Bruce had expected him to be angry at this news. Furious. Incandescent. They had expected him to run off half-cocked and attack the man who had hurt his brother.

He probably would be angry, later. Once it had time to settle in. Right now, though, all he felt was horror. Horror, and grief, and utter, utter sorrow.

Someone had hurt his little brother. Worse than that, the man who should have been Tim's greatest defender, his _father,_ had hurt him. Hurt him so badly that Bruce had decided it was no longer safe for Tim to live in his home. Tim had just lost his father, his home, his sense of safety..._everything._ All in the course of one night, all because his father couldn't be asked to treat him like a human being.

Tim had struggled up to sit on the sofa, the blanket puddling around his waist. He looked utterly miserable, and the position must be hurting him from the way his breath was hissing through his teeth. But he was looking at Dick, his eyes shiny with tears, something like pleading on his face. Pleading for Dick to do something? Say something? What did he want? Dick didn't know how he was supposed to respond to this.

Dick didn't know the right thing to say. The right thing to do. There was a list of things he'd learned in his police training, a step by step checklist of how to deal with victims of abuse. He'd had similar training with Bruce for Robin, a long time ago. But none of that applied here. None of that mattered. This was Tim. This was his little brother. His little brother who had been beaten and abused and was sitting silently in front of him with tears in his eyes, biting his lip and looking up at Dick like he was expecting something.

Dick didn't know what the right thing was to do. He had no idea. So he just did the only thing he could think of. He went to the sofa and wrapped Tim up in his arms and pulled him down to rest on top of him, Dick lying on his back and Tim face down, sprawled across him, because that was the only way he could see to hold him without hurting him more. Tim went stiff for a moment, then wrapped his arms around Dick as far as they would go and started to cry.

It was awful, wrenching and heartbroken. Dick had never heard Tim cry like this before. He smelled wintergreen and salt, felt his brother's tears soaking into his shirt, the strangely pleasant feeling of his small features pressed against his chest. He rubbed his back and sniffed back his own tears and murmured reassurances. Just nonsense phrases, a lot of them, the first things that popped into his head, but he meant every single one with everything he had in him.

"I'm sorry, Tim. I'm so sorry. Shh, baby boy, it's okay, it's okay. I'm so sorry this happened to you, but everything's going to be okay. We're gonna take care of you. You still have a home. You still have a family. Nothing is lost. Nothing is broken. I know it hurts, and I'm so sorry. I know you feel alone, but you aren't. You have us, honey, you have all of us, and we'll never let you go. We love you so much, Timmy. We all love you so much. You have me and Alfred and Bruce and Babs and Huntress and even Catwoman, you know she likes you too. I'm so sorry your dad is the biggest dick to ever dick, but it's gonna be okay, because you still have us, and we love you, sweetie. We love you so much."

At first Tim cried harder, and it hurt. It made Dick feel like everything was breaking apart, like his chest was an ice floe cracking up in the spring sunshine, and it wasn't right. This poor baby boy never should have had to feel pain like this, have to cry like this. Dick hated it, he hated it so much, but he loved Tim with a fierce and all-encompassing love that felt like the sun inside him. He felt like it should be shooting out of his fingers and toes, he loved this boy so hugely, so ferociously. He was angry at Jack for hurting Tim, absolutely furious, and that was fire, too, but he was also grateful to Bruce for finding Tim and bringing him home and keeping him safe, and that was a radiant heat that was entirely different than the fire, but it was all mixed up, all the same and all the different, and he just loved Timmy, he loved his little brother, he loved loved loved him, and there under the fire of rage and the glow of gratitude was nothing in him but love for Tim and sorrow for his sorrow and grief for his grief and pain for his pain.

"I love you, Tim," he murmured into his ear as Tim lay exhausted against him, sobbing wearily into his collarbone. "I love you, I love you, I love you. It's going to be okay. We're going to make it be okay. You'll never be alone again."

It was nonsense, it wasn't true, it was impossible. No one should make promises like these, not even to a hurting child crying into their chest. But Dick couldn't help it. He meant it. He meant every word.

"I was so scared," Tim whispered into his neck. "I was so scared, Dick. When Dad yelled at me, and then came back with that belt... I was so scared. It hurt so much. It felt like it would never stop hurting. It hurt so bad."

Dick looked up at the ceiling and felt his tears flowing down his temples, soaking the throw pillow that propped up his head. "I'm sorry, Timmy. I'm so sorry you went through that. But it's okay. You're safe now. I'll never let him touch you again."

"I just wanted to talk to him," Tim whimpered. "I just... I just wanted him to help me figure things out. But things went wrong and I didn't listen right and he got so mad at me and... And now I'll never be able to talk to him again, not the way I wanted to. It's my fault. I'm a bad son."

Dick shook his head and held him tighter, squeezing his arms around Tim's back tight enough to make him gasp. "No, Tim. No, never. It wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault. If you were having trouble listening to your dad, he should have sat down with you and looked into your face and gotten your attention and asked you what was going on that you were distracted. He shouldn't have yelled at you and scared you and then...then beat you with a belt. That's not how it should work. That's not what a dad does. That's not what a dad should do."

"I messed it up. I ruined everything."

"No, it was your dad who messed up. It was your dad who ruined everything. Not you, never you. And I'm so sorry he did that, Timbo. I'm so sorry he ruined things for you, and you feel so bad now, and you lost so much. But it wasn't your fault. It was never your fault. You never deserved it, not a second of it. Not a _single_ second."

Like that, in little dribs and drabs interspersed with painful tears, Dick got the full story of what had happened to lead to this sorry state of affairs. Tim's girlfriend, Ariana, had been attacked by a young man who said it wasn't a date, then trapped her and would have assaulted her if she hadn't been able to escape. Then she had come on to Tim, trying to replace those bad memories with good memories of being with her boyfriend. Tim had refused to take advantage of her distress and comforted her instead, but then her uncle came home unexpectedly and caught them in a compromising position. He had chased Tim out of the house and would have hurt him if Tim hadn't been nimble enough to dodge.

And then it had all spiraled from that misunderstanding. Ariana's uncle was furious and was declaring his intention to send her to an all-girls school, and he had called Jack Drake and talked to him while Tim was out. When Tim came home, Jack instantly grounded him and sent him to his room without discussing what had happened. Jack's girlfriend, Dana, had talked to Tim and promised to try to get Jack to calm down and discuss the situation with him. But when Jack came to his room later, Tim had been distracted watching a hostage situation on TV and hadn't paid attention to him at first.

Jack had screamed at Tim, frightening him badly enough that he thought Jack might hit him right then, but all he'd done was take away Tim's television and scold him for disrespecting him. It was later that Jack had come back with the belt and beaten Tim so badly he couldn't move. Then Tim had called Bruce, just hoping for some advice on how to make his father lighten up a bit. He hadn't expected Bruce to take him away entirely and tell him he was never going back.

"I didn't even _do_ anything." Tim sniffled into Dick's neck. "I would never hurt Ariana, I would n-never... I don't even know if I want to, to..."

"Shh, it's okay. You don't have to explain yourself." Dick rubbed Tim's back in small, soothing circles. "You're only fourteen. You don't have to do anything you're not ready for. I'm so sorry that adults made assumptions about you, Timmy. That wasn't fair."

"I was just trying to help. I never meant for her to get in trouble or for her uncle to be mad at her."

"She made a mistake, Tim. A completely understandable mistake, but still. She should have discussed things with you first instead of just assuming that you would want to be with her that way. You can't blame yourself for Ariana's mistake. It wasn't your fault. If you want, we'll check up on her, okay? Me or Bruce or Alfred will talk to Ariana's uncle and try to explain things. If both you and Ariana are telling the same story, he'll have to be reasonable and listen."

Tim sighed and relaxed a little more, lying limply on top of his big brother. "Okay. Thank you."

So much gratitude for such a small gesture. It was both adorable and heartbreaking. This was all Tim had wanted from his father. Just to be listened to. Just the promise of trying to make things better. Utterly horrific, utterly terrible that Jack hadn't been able to provide even the slightest amount of respect and understanding to his son. He had demanded perfect respect from Tim without showing him any at all, himself.

Tim yawned and settled into him. The tears had mostly stopped, just an occasional sniffle interrupting his breathing. "Is Bruce really gonna keep me?" he asked sleepily.

"Yeah, of course. Forever." Dick kissed his head and cuddled him close. "Me too. I'm keeping you forever. You're my Timmy now. Your stupid dad can't have you back. He wasted his shot at having a Timmy, and we get to keep you now. That's how it works. Finders keepers, losers weepers."

Tim giggled, though the sound was a little sad. "I wish he hadn't done that, though."

"I know, honey. I'm really sorry he was such a jerk to you. But we're gonna make it up to you."

"Okay."

"I love you so much, Timbo. You believe me, right?"

"Yeah." Tim sighed, his voice drifting closer and closer to sleep. "I love you too. And Bruce, and Alfred, and Oracle, and Huntress, and Catwoman, and Batman, and Robin, and Nightwing, and Commissioner Gordon, and the Batsignal, and the Batcave, and the Batmobile..."

Dick chuckled, though he tried to suppress it. His chest vibrated, jiggling Tim gently where he lay against him. Tim smiled into his chest, soft and slow and sleepy. And then he was gone. Dick felt himself drifting, too. It had been an exhausting couple of hours, holding his anguished little brother and shepherding him through mounds and mounds of emotional pain. And he hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep last night. Surely it was okay to let go for a while.

He woke up to the feeling of a large, careful hand cupped around his head and the scent of Bruce's cologne, the one he wore on business days. He opened his eyes, blinking against the crud that had accumulated in his lashes, and gave Bruce a sleepy smile. He could feel Tim tucked against him, sleeping soundly. Their arms were still wrapped around each other.

"Hey, B. Good day?"

Bruce smiled, the flesh around his eyes crinkling, though Dick saw the weariness in his posture, the way his cuff was undone. Bruce was crouching on the floor next to their sofa, his hand still resting on Dick's head. "Pretty good. We got Jack Drake squared away."

Dick blinked. He had expected that Bruce would take care of it, of course, but not this quickly. "How?"

"The Wayne Foundation offered him a grant. Very fascinating anthropological studies to be done over in, say, Australia. Great historical significance, great implications for our understanding of blah blah, something. I gave the details well enough at the board meeting, but don't ask me to repeat them."

"And that worked?"

Bruce grimaced and looked away, his distaste for Jack Drake showing all over his face. "Yes. I might have also implied there was the possibility of a criminal case if he didn't take the deal. It's going to be a very involved dig, take him a long time. Years. So, you know. It just made sense for him to sign custody of his son over to me, since he couldn't possibly take Tim away from his studies in Gotham."

"Ah." Dick grimaced in return, even as he relaxed and wrapped his arms tighter around Tim. It was great that Tim was theirs now, no take-backs, but it sucked that Jack had given up so easily. Just another indicator that he had never really cared about Tim at all. His heart ached, and he wasn't sure how he was going to tell Tim about it.

Bruce sighed and petted his head, then ran his fingers through Tim's hair. "Alfred said you and Tim had a talk, too."

"Sort of. There was a lot of crying mixed up with the talking. But yeah, he told me what happened, how the whole mess started. It really wasn't his fault, Bruce."

"I never thought it was."

Dick shook his head. His throat felt tight, and yet more tears pricked at his eyes. "He's such a good kid. He just wants to help. Always. He just wants to help. I don't understand how anyone could hurt him, let alone his own _father._ What...what the hell..."

"I know, I know."

Dick realized he was trembling. Bruce bent closer to him, wrapping his arm awkwardly around Dick's head in a kind of hug. Dick's nose was jammed into Bruce's armpit. He laughed and pushed him away with his forehead, trying not to jostle Tim too much. "It's fine. I'm fine. Stop it."

Bruce withdrew with a half-smile. "I'm glad you're here, Dickie. We needed you today."

Dick sighed. "I know. Thank you for calling me. I needed to be here."

"It was Alfred's idea. I was honestly so caught up in trying to figure out what to do with Jack that I didn't even think about calling you."

Dick snorted. "Yes, I know Alfred truly runs the house. I'm not offended."

"Right." Bruce rubbed gently at the dried tear tracks on Dick's temple. "Do you want to get up now, or do you want to keep cuddling your little brother?"

A slow, broad smile spread over Dick's face. He had often thought of Tim as his little brother, at least in his head, but he'd never said it aloud. And he'd never heard Bruce say anything like it, either. Bruce had always been so careful not to claim Tim, not to overstep any boundaries or imply that their relationship was more than mentor and mentee.

Well, all that was out the window now, and Dick couldn't be more glad.

"Oh, I think I'll keep cuddling my little bro," he said casually. "Thanks for asking, though."

"All right." Bruce chuckled and scratched his fingers across Dick's scalp, then Tim's. Then he stood up and made his exit.

Dick continued to lay there, holding his little brother and smiling at the ceiling. This day was terrible. Just the worst. He felt so much pain for Tim, for his confusion and heartbreak and loss. He would do anything to assuage that, anything to help him feel even a little bit better.

But it was a wonderful day, too. Tim was theirs, and they were never, ever giving him back.


	3. Dana Winters

Dana Winters knocked cautiously on the door of Wayne Manor, feeling strangely small. She had seen the manor frequently, of course, since it was next door to her boyfriend's house, but she'd never been inside. There had been a lot of upheaval recently, with Jack suddenly announcing that he was moving to Australia on an extended expedition. He had invited her to come with him, and she was seriously considering it, but it was a big decision.

Part of the upheaval was that Tim had moved in with the Waynes, choosing to stay in Gotham to finish his schooling rather than going to Australia with his dad. Or he'd moved back in, actually, since he'd stayed with them while Jack was in his coma. Dana hadn't known that until recently, though she'd been aware that Tim was friends with Bruce Wayne's adopted son, Dick Grayson.

Yesterday, out of the blue, she'd gotten a call from the Wayne family butler, Mr. Pennyworth, saying that Tim would like to see her if she was willing. Of course Dana had agreed immediately. She had always liked Tim, and she wanted to make sure he was okay with all the big changes that were happening in his life. He wasn't really hers, not her son, not her stepson, not her charge. But he could be someday, maybe, and she'd always found the idea appealing. He was such a sweet kid. She hoped he and Jack had worked out their disagreement before all of this started.

The door opened, and Mr. Pennyworth stood there. He greeted her with a genteel nod and stepped aside to let her in. "If you'll follow me, Ms. Winters, Master Tim is waiting for you in the study."

Dana followed him down the hall, looking around at the antique furnishings and vaulted architecture. She hoped Tim didn't feel too out of place, living here. He'd always struck her as a down-to-earth and humble young man, despite the privilege he'd been born into. The Drakes were well off, but not hyper-rich like the Waynes. It must be quite strange to transition to this stronghold of old money, even though he'd lived here for a while two years ago.

In the study, Tim was reclining in a chair, lounging on a pile of cushions. Pain was lurking around his eyes, and Dana pulled up short in the doorway when she saw it. No one had said anything about Tim being hurt, and it made her heart lurch. She smelled the distinctive scent of analgesic pain cream, an aroma she was intimately familiar with because of her work as a physical therapist. She fervently hoped that his injury wasn't serious. Surely the Waynes would make sure he received the very best care, in any case.

Mr. Pennyworth announced her, but Tim was already sitting up with a ready smile at seeing her. He winced as he shifted in the chair, and Dana swept her eyes over him head to toe, trying to see where the injury was. Nothing was visible through his clothes.

"Hi, Dana," Tim said softly. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course, honey." Dana crossed to a chair near to his and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. "I'm so glad you invited me. Are you all right?"

"Master Tim, do you want me to stay?" Mr. Pennyworth asked. Dana looked up at him, blinking. Those were not the tones of a disinterested employee. Mr. Pennyworth seemed genuinely concerned about Tim. He was offering his presence as moral support, though Dana couldn't imagine why that would be needed.

Tim hesitated, then shook his head with a smile. "Thank you, Alfred. I'll be fine. I'd like to talk to Dana alone."

"Very well." Mr. Pennyworth looked to Dana. His tone was considerably more cool and professional when aimed at her. Not as if he disliked her or anything, but she was only a guest here, while Tim was family. "Would you like any refreshments, Ms. Winters? Water or tea, perhaps?"

Dana swallowed dryly. She was getting the feeling that more was going on here than just an invitation to catch up with her boyfriend's son. "I'll take a glass of water, please."

"Certainly. I'll return momentarily."

Mr. Pennyworth left the room, and Dana turned her full attention to Tim. She tried to smile, though she knew it came out a little strained. "Are you all right, Tim? You look like you're in pain. What happened? Did you have an accident?"

Tim stared at her wordlessly for a moment, then his mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. "I should have known you would notice. Yeah, I'm in pain. Something happened to me. I'll tell you in a little bit. It's why I asked you to come, actually."

"Oh. Okay." Dana sat back in her chair and tried to relax. "I don't mean to pressure you, sweetheart. You tell me when you're ready. I hope it's not serious."

Tim shook his head. "No, not really." He paused. "Well, in one way it's not serious at all, but in another way it's very, very serious."

Mr. Pennyworth came back with her glass of water. Dana accepted it gratefully and took a long drink, then set it down on a coaster on a side table. Mr. Pennyworth nodded at her thanks and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Tim watched her, his teeth chewing at the inside corner of his mouth. "I heard that my dad asked you to go with him to Australia," he said softly.

Dana nodded gently. "He did, yes."

"Are you considering it?"

"I'm thinking about it. It's a big change. I'd be leaving my family and friends behind to move to another country, pretty much just because my boyfriend asked me to. He said he's sure I can get a job out there, but I know it's more complicated than he's making it sound."

Tim seemed to relax a bit. "So you're leaning toward no?"

Dana pursed her lips. "I don't know. Even if I wasn't able to get a job out there, I would be with Jack. I'd be able to see him work, maybe even learn how to help him with that. I'll get to see him in his element, doing the job he loves. He's so smart, so accomplished... I have to admit, I'd really love to see him like that. I really, actually..." She trailed off, blushing.

"You love him," Tim whispered.

She felt a broad, happy smile spread over her face. "Yes. I do. I love him. I hope someday..." She shrugged one shoulder. "He hasn't proposed, not yet. But we have talked about it. I really... I don't want to give that up. I don't want to abandon our possible future together before we have a chance to see how far we can go."

Tim nodded, staring away without blinking. His face was serious, still pained. Dana's heart hurt to see him like this.

She leaned forward and touched his knee. Tim started and looked up at her. "I hope you know, Tim, that the idea of being your stepmom has always been a pleasant one. I know you and Jack are a package deal, and I'm happy to have you both in my life."

To her surprise, Tim's face fell even further. He even looked like he might be tearing up. "I..." he started shakily, then took a breath and went on. "I don't know whether I should tell you now..."

"Tell me what, sweetheart? The thing you brought me here to tell me?"

Tim nodded jerkily. "It... It's serious. I don't want to, want to ruin anything for you. Your relationship with my dad..."

A cold spot started to form in the middle of Dana's heart. "Why would what you have to tell me ruin my relationship with your dad?"

"I don't know that it will." Tim shook his head and looked away again, biting his lip. "But it could, and I don't... I don't want to hurt you."

"Tim." Dana sat up straight and held her knees with her hands. She tried to steel herself for whatever was coming. She already knew it was going to hurt, but she had to take it for Tim's sake. He was obviously deeply troubled by something, and if he needed to share it with her, she wanted to hear it. "Please tell me. I promise I can handle it."

Tim slumped over in his chair, resting his forehead on his hand, his elbow on the chair arm. "Um..." He rubbed at his eyes. "Sorry, I keep crying all the time. I don't mean to."

"There's nothing wrong with crying, sweetheart. It's how the body relieves emotional stress. I'm sure you must be feeling a lot of that right now, with your dad leaving as well as you getting hurt. Moving to a new house can be stressful too, even when you've lived there in the past."

Tim laughed shortly. "Yeah, I guess." He took a deep breath and sat straighter, wincing again at the movement. "Dana, I..."

She held carefully still and silent, letting him take his time.

"My dad and I are no longer a package deal. Bruce is making his custody of me permanent, instead of the temporary custody he had before. And Dad agreed to it."

The cold spot in Dana's heart got a little larger. She was starting to see the big picture here, and it was horrible. She hoped she was wrong. "Does this have something to do with you getting hurt?"

Tim swallowed. His eyes welled up again, and he ducked his head and wiped them with his thumb and index finger. He nodded, once.

The cold spot was now her entire heart, it felt like. "Tim, honey..." Her voice was hushed. "Did your dad hurt you?"

Tim hid his face in his hand. He nodded again, small and wounded, his shoulders hunched to his ears. Then he drew a breath in relief and raised his head, looking at her straight on with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

She would have laughed if it didn't hurt so much. "What could you possibly be sorry for, honey?"

"I'm sorry I had to tell you this. I just... I didn't want you to make such a big decision without having all the information."

"You were right to tell me," she said, though her lips felt numb. "Can you give me any more details? You don't have to if you don't want to."

How long had Jack been hurting his son? How long had she been intimately entwined in their lives without seeing it, without noticing? She was a mandatory reporter. If she had seen even a hint of abuse, she should have reported it right away. She should have saved Tim long ago. How stupid was she? How blind?

How could she have missed this?

She wanted to believe Tim was lying. She wanted to believe it was all a mistake. Or it was something small, not that bad. But looking back, she couldn't help but admit that it made sense. In retrospect, the signs were all too clear.

Tim was staring at her, his arms wrapped around his stomach in a self-hug. "Um. Would it, would it help you to have more details?"

Dana thought about it. Did she really _need_ to know more about how this poor boy had been hurt by his father, or was it just her own morbid curiosity driving her? Or was it her own sense of guilt, wanting to know just how badly she had failed this child?

But again, she felt that urge to deny. She didn't want to believe Tim was telling the truth, though she knew he was. The fact that he was wincing when he moved, her own observations of Jack's behavior, Bruce Wayne himself choosing to intervene... Tim had to be telling the truth. But she wanted more information, more proof, was almost hungry for it. Something in her demanded it.

She swallowed, hard. "I... I think it would help me, yes. But I don't want to force you to say anything. If you're willing to tell me the full story, I would very much like to know. And maybe... Maybe it would help you to talk about it, too."

Dana immediately felt horrible for that last statement. So selfish. So manipulative. She wasn't really asking for Tim's benefit at all. She was asking for her own. But she bit her lip, and she didn't take it back.

Tim dipped his head, staring at his lap. Then he looked up at her, his eyes large and liquid with pain. He slowly, painfully rose to his feet. The blanket that had been over his lap fell to the floor. He turned his back to her and reached back to grasp the waistband of the huge, baggy basketball shorts he was wearing. And he started to pull them down.

Dana only got a glimpse. She saw an edge of red, raised skin. Then she was on her feet, her hands reaching out. She grabbed his wrist, probably harder than necessary. Tim winced and went still under her touch, trembling all over.

She couldn't speak for a moment, her mouth opening and closing. When the words finally came, they were rough and phlegmy, barely audible. "No... No. I changed my mind. Stop. You don't have to show me. You don't have to tell me. You don't have to tell me anything."

Tim's fingers slipped off his waistband. Dana moved his hand back to his front, then took his shoulders and turned him around to face her. She pulled him into a hug, careful to wrap her arms only around his upper back. He was still shaking. Her tears flowed down into his dark mass of hair.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You don't have to show me. You don't owe me anything. You've told me enough."

He stood still in her arms for a long moment, still trembling. Then he cautiously wrapped his arms around her in return. After a second, when she didn't push him away, he burrowed his head into her shoulder and tightened his grip. His breath came in hitching gasps, though he wasn't fully crying.

Dana was, though. She turned her head to rest her cheek on his hair and swayed him gently in her arms. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I didn't see it. I'm sorry I didn't save you."

Tim pulled away from her, looking up at her in shock. "Dana, no. It wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it, though?" Dana pulled back and wiped at her face. "I'm a mandatory reporter. I've had training. I should have recognized what your father was doing to you." Her hand tightened into a fist, fingernails digging into her palm. "I can't believe I fell for it. Fell for _him._ God, it should have been obvious. I'm such a fool."

Tim shook his head, slowly at first, then more rapidly. His eyes were frantic. "No, no, don't blame yourself. It wasn't like that. It was only the one time."

"Only the one time that... That he hit you? Beat you?"

Tim bit his lip, then nodded. He teared up again, but forced it down. It was still hard to admit, even to someone who already knew.

Dana sighed and rubbed his shoulders. "All right. Thank you for telling me that. I guess I'm... I'm glad to know that he only physically abused you the one time. And it looks like Bruce Wayne rescued you right away? Took you out of that home as soon as possible?"

"The same night," he whispered.

Dana swallowed more tears. "That's good. I'm so glad. I'm glad you're safe now. But I should have seen it earlier, should have _done_ something earlier, and I didn't. Jack even admitted he was neglectful to me. Admitted it! And I brushed it aside, even though I saw it continue. He's been... He's been emotionally abusing you for years. And I didn't let myself see it. I'm so sorry, honey."

Tim looked pole-axed. "Em...emotionally? What...what are you talking about?"

"I'm not really qualified to..." She looked around. "Can we sit down? Or will that hurt you?"

Tim flushed. "It's...it's not so bad now. It's been almost a week. I've healed a lot."

"It still hurts, though, doesn't it?" Dana sighed. "You were sitting when I came in just out of social convention. Trying to be as normal as possible."

"It's not that bad," he insisted.

Dana shook her head and led him over to a soft-looking sofa in another corner of the room. "Here lie down. On your stomach."

He looked mutinous, but he did lie down. On his side. Dana went back to the chair and collected a throw pillow and blanket, then brought them back and made him more comfortable. Then she sat down on the floor by his head, looking into his face, which was propped up on the pillow.

"I'm not surprised that you don't know what emotional abuse is," she said. "It's not something they really teach in schools, unlike physical abuse and sexual abuse. They should, though. It can be just as hurtful, just as damaging. When your parents left you behind as a child, left you alone, didn't pay attention to you, didn't even try to understand you... That was neglect. It was emotional abuse.

"Jack said he wanted to do better, and I believed him. I wanted to help him. But his actions didn't match his words. I should have realized that. He's always so dismissive of you, so callous of your feelings. He wants you to respect him, to act as he expects you to, but he's never really tried to get to know you, has he? He's never actually sat down with you and talked about what you like to do, or what happened during your day, or what troubles or upsets you. I've never seen him do it, and I can't imagine he's done it while I wasn't there, not now that my eyes have been opened."

Tim blinked several times. His eyes filled with tears again, and he turned his face into the pillow and shook his head. Dana rubbed his upper back and shoulder, making her touch firm, almost a massage. He was so tense, so overwhelmed.

"He was on his best behavior while I was there, wasn't he?" she asked. "He tried to be a good father when I was around. Tried to impress me. And even so, I still saw the cracks."

Tim nodded into the pillow.

"He must have been worse when I wasn't there. You don't have to tell me, but I can guess... That night he grounded you, and I tried to convince him to talk to you instead... His attempt to talk to you didn't go well, did it?"

Tim turned his head to look at her again. His eyes were red-rimmed. "I didn't pay enough attention," he murmured. "There was a hostage crisis on TV, and I couldn't tear my eyes away. He screamed at me for being disrespectful. I thought he was gonna hit me. But he just tore my TV out of the wall and said I'd lost that privilege while I was grounded."

Dana closed her eyes, then opened them again. "So he never did talk to you about what happened with Ariana. He never got your side of the story."

Tim shook his head.

"Yelling at you, scaring you, making you think he was going to hurt you... That was emotional abuse, honey. It never should have happened."

"But I was being disrespectful. I kept watching TV instead of listening to him."

"Then he should have turned off the TV and sat down and really _talked_ to you." Dana couldn't resist running her fingers through his hair. It was baby-soft, sliding pleasantly through her fingers. "He might not have hurt your body when he yelled at you, but he hurt your heart. He taught you that you couldn't talk to him, that you couldn't trust him or depend on him. You've always had to do everything alone, haven't you? Always had to deal with your feelings and your problems without someone to guide you, to help you?" She didn't have to wait for his nod. She knew it was true. "That was emotional neglect and abuse, and it hurt you. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. You deserve better. So much better."

Tim lay still with his eyes closed, letting her pet his hair. He breathed slowly, deep in thought. Dana sat there and let him take all the time he needed. She knew this was hard. Hard to understand, hard to accept. Tim could understand that his father beating him was wrong, but it was much more difficult to take in a nebulous concept like emotional abuse. Much more difficult to apply that to his own life, to acknowledge how much it hurt.

After a few minutes, Tim opened his eyes and gave her a slow nod. He looked exhausted, and no wonder. Dana smiled and brushed his hair away from his forehead, then rested her hand on the top of his head. "Good job," she murmured. "I know that was hard."

Tim closed his eyes and went limp.

"I'm going to talk to Mr. Pennyworth," she said. "I can recommend some good therapists. I'm sure Mr. Wayne can afford it."

He opened one eye to look at her. "Therapists?"

"You need therapy, honey. Your dad, too, but I don't really care about him right now."

He looked terribly, shatteringly guilty. "I'm sorry."

Dana shook her head. "Not your fault. Not _remotely_ your fault. You don't need to worry about your dad, okay? He's not your responsibility. All you need to do is heal, and learn, and grow, and be happy. That's all a kid is supposed to do."

Tim still looked guilty, but like he was trying to hide it. "And...Australia?"

Dana smiled. "I'm not going. But I am going to have some words with your father. Again, you don't need to worry about it. The adults will take it from here, all right? I can handle myself."

Tim frowned. "You were so happy earlier," he murmured. "And I ruined it."

"No. It was your dad who did that. All you did was tell me the truth. And I'm so grateful to you for doing that, Tim. I know it was hard. But you were right. I needed to have all the information before I made such a big decision."

Tim nodded and closed his eyes. Dana got up on her knees and leaned over to kiss his forehead, then pulled the blanket up to his shoulders and climbed to her feet. "You look like you need a nap, sweetheart. I'll see myself out. But if you ever want to talk to me, or you ever need me for any reason, anything at all, you call me, all right? Or have Mr. Pennyworth call me. I'll admit it was something of a thrill, getting a call from a butler like that."

Tim smiled softly, though he didn't open his eyes. "Alfred is the best," he murmured.

"I can see that." Dana leaned down and petted his hair one more time, trying to memorize the sensation. Then she walked quietly out of the room.

Tim wasn't her son, wasn't her stepson, and he never would be now. But she loved him, and she would never stop. She was glad he had good people in his life now, Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson and Mr. Pennyworth, too. She knew they would take good care of him. Tim would have adults in his corner from now on, family members who would love him.

She was just sad that she wouldn't get to be one of them.


	4. Sebastian Ives

Tim had been gone from school for more than week. Sebastian looked at the empty chair next to him in Western Civ, zoning out while Mr. Stucky kept lecturing at the front of the class. So far none of the teachers had seemed concerned about Tim being gone, so he must have a good excuse on file with the office. But Sebastian couldn't help worrying.

Tim did reply to his texts, but his answers were always really short. Just that he'd gotten hurt and couldn't come to school for a while, but no details beyond that. Tim was often kind of spacy, not the best student, and sometimes missed a day or two for mysterious reasons, but never for this long.

Sebastian glanced at the teacher under his bangs, then stealthily pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it under his desk to send a text. _Hey, Drake, I know you're still laid up or whatever, but are you up for some W&W this Saturday? It's been a while. The guys having been talking about missing your scenarios._

He kept glancing at the phone while trying to pay at least some attention to the lecture. Tim's response came not long afterward. _Sorry, Ives. Things are still kind of crazy around here._

Sebastian snorted quietly. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice. _Tell me about it._

_Oh, really? You too? What's up?_

Sebastian had to close his eyes for a moment. Timothy Drake really was the spaciest guy he knew, sometimes. _No, I mean YOU tell ME about it. What's up with you, dude? You've never been gone from school this long. Did you break your back or something?_

Tim didn't answer for a long time. It wasn't until Sebastian checked his phone between Western Civ and heading to the cafeteria for lunch that he finally saw another text from his wayward friend. _I'm fine. I'll be back in school soon. A few more days, probably. Don't worry about me._

Sebastian rolled his eyes and put his phone away. Yeah, right. That just made him even more worried.

He should have asked Mr. Stucky if there was some homework or something that he could deliver to Tim. At least that would give him an excuse to go over to his house.

He'd never even been to Tim's house, come to think of it. When they had game days that Tim was able to come for, it was always somewhere else. Did he even have Tim's address?

The next thing Sebastian knew, his feet had taken him down another hallway, shoes squeaking on the tiled floor as he passed beyond the press of the thronging students into an emptier section of the building. The school office was back here. They probably wouldn't give a student's address to some random kid who just came to ask for it, but it wouldn't hurt to try. Yeah, he could just ask Tim, but he expected nothing but more stonewalling.

In the school office, the lady at the front desk, Mabel, peered at Sebastian over her bifocals. She was a sharp-nosed woman in her fifties who kind of looked like a grandma, but not Sebastian's grandma. His grandma was way softer and sweeter. Her house was always full of cookies. He kind of doubted that Mabel had ever baked a cookie in her life.

Mr. Stucky was also there, making copies. Probably of another pop quiz to make their lives miserable in Western Civ. Sebastian did his best not to catch his attention.

Sebastian shifted nervously from foot to foot at Mabel's judging look. "I was hoping I could get the home address for my friend, Tim Drake? He's been out of school for a long time and I'm kinda worried about it."

Mable frowned. "I can't give out a student's address to just anyone who wanders in, sonny. That's private information."

Sebastian sighed, though he had pretty much expected that. "Please, isn't there something you can do? I've tried texting him, but Tim is cagey, and I'm pretty sure he's not telling me the whole truth. I'm just worried about him."

Shockingly, Mr. Stucky chose to wander over, leaving the copy machine running. "Mabel, I can vouch for Mr. Ives, here. He and Tim always sit together in my class, and I've seen them chatting and laughing with each other." He gave Sebastian a sympathetic look, which Sebastian had not expected.

Mabel sniffed. "I'll have to ask his current guardian." But she did actually get up and go over to a file cabinet, presumably to look up Tim's records.

Sebastian refrained from rolling his eyes. Tim's dad was almost never around. Hadn't he been on, like, a trip to Europe or something recently? Tim had been bummed about it, especially after the whole thing with Ariana. Was he even back yet?

Mabel came back and plopped Tim's file down on her desk. Mr. Stucky leaned over her shoulder. "Wait a second, his current guardian is Bruce Wayne?"

Mabel gave him the stink-eye. "Change of guardianship form came over a couple of days ago."

Sebastian's eyes widened until they hurt. He mouthed _What the fuck?,_ which Mr. Stucky glanced over and caught.

"Are you sure it wasn't a prank?" he asked Mabel, taking Sebastian's side again, thank God.

Mabel frowned at him. "Mr. Wayne did have guardianship of Tim Drake two years ago, while his parents were away, and then while his poor father was in the hospital."

"Did something happen to Tim's dad?" Sebastian couldn't help asking. Poor Tim, God. His mom died and his dad ended up in a coma and he had to live with strangers for a while, and now his dad was incapacitated _again?_ No wonder he was "busy," if stuff like that was going on.

Mabel sighed and gave him a pitying look. "I don't suppose I can expect a high school boy to read the papers."

Sebastian blinked at her.

Mr. Stucky chuckled. "No one in this school reads the society pages as religiously as you do, ma'am."

Mabel started to look irritated at the first part of the statement, but mellowed out when he called her "ma'am." She bobbed her head, then looked back to Sebastian. "The elder Mr. Drake is moving to Australia for an extended expedition," she said, her voice equally soothing and condescending. "I'm sure he's just fine."

"Tim didn't tell me," Sebastian said in a small voice. "Last I knew, he was looking forward to his dad coming back from Europe. And now he's leaving right away for Australia? And Tim's staying with Bruce Wayne?"

Mr. Stucky frowned and leaned back on his heel, crossing his arms over his chest. "It does seem a little odd," he said thoughtfully.

"And just when Tim got hurt, too? He won't even tell me _how_ he got hurt." Sebastian scrubbed his hand through his hair. "It's just...weird."

"Yeah." Mr. Stucky looked at Mabel. "Tim wasn't in any of my classes at the time, but wasn't there a thing a while ago where he came in with a black eye? Some of the teachers suspected abuse."

Sebastian's breath caught in his throat. He felt dizzy, like the floor was too far away.

Mabel frowned and waved a hand. "They looked into it, but nothing came of it. I'm sure it was nothing. Kids get hurt all the time playing sports and what have you."

"Tim isn't into sports," Sebastian said woodenly. "He's a giant nerd, like me."

Mr. Stucky looked at him sharply. "Hey. Are you okay?"

"I need to sit down." Sebastian stumbled backward a few steps and fell into one of the chairs against the wall, then bent down with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He stared at the floor, just breathing. His stomach was churning, and he felt like he was going to throw up, but he hadn't even eaten anything since breakfast.

Mr. Stucky came over and sat next to him. He carefully patted his back. "Mabel, would you go get Mr. Ives a ginger ale?"

Sebastian heard Mabel's sharp footsteps crossing the floor. He shook his head and scrubbed his fingers against his eyes. "I only met Tim's dad a couple of times," he said softly. "He was always gone. Always busy. But he seemed okay. I never thought he would...would..."

Mr. Stucky let his hand rest on his back. "I'm sorry, Sebastian." There was true regret his voice. "I was just gossiping with Mabel. I didn't mean to make you scared for your friend. I'm sure Tim is fine."

Sebastian shook his head. The floor was dirty, and there was a crack in one of the tiles near the toe of his right shoe. He poked his toe into it, mechanically, just because it was there. "No, it makes sense. It makes too much sense. I just... I never thought..."

He closed eyes and tried to stop thinking, but he couldn't. Mr. Stucky sat with him, his hand warm on Sebastian's back. After a few minutes, Mabel came back, and Sebastian heard the pop and hiss sound of a can of soda being opened. He opened his eyes and sat up, and she put the cold can in his hand. He didn't feel quite as dizzy and sick now, but he took a long drink and leaned back against the wall, and Mr. Stucky moved his hand out of the way.

Mabel went back to her desk, watching him with a lot more sympathy, now. "Do you still want me to call Mr. Wayne and ask for his permission to give you the address?" she asked almost gently.

Sebastian shook his head. His felt tired and worn out, like he'd just finished gym class, instead of just hearing some dumb rumors about his buddy in the school office. "No. I... I think I should get it from Tim." If he really was living with Bruce Wayne, Sebastian could honestly just look the address up online. But that wouldn't be right.

Mabel nodded and went about her work, leaving him to recover. After a while, Sebastian waved Mr. Stucky away, too. He went and collected his copies from the machine, which had finished long ago, then left the room.

Sebastian drank about half of the ginger ale, then set the can down on the floor next to his foot. He took his phone from his pocket. No texting this time. He found Tim's contact and hit the call button.

If Tim didn't answer, he would leave a voicemail and try again later. And again. And again. Until Tim would talk to him.

But after a few rings, Tim picked up. "Ives?" His voice was confused at the call, but not displeased. People their age almost never used their phones to make calls, so Tim knew this was unusual, maybe serious. "Is everything okay? What's up?"

Sebastian almost laughed. He rubbed his hand over his face. He wasn't crying. No way. It was just a dumb rumor. "Me? I'm fine, dude. Never better. I just... I was hoping you would talk to me. What's going on with you? I miss you."

Tim was quiet for a long, long time. Sebastian almost thought the call had dropped. Then he heard a sound he had never expected, not in his wildest dreams. It was a sniffle.

Tim's voice was wavering. "I'm not okay, man."

Sebastian closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cold wall. It hurt. Oh, God, it _hurt._ He hadn't expected it to hurt so much.

He opened his eyes and sat forward, pressing the phone closer to his head. "Please, Tim. Talk to me. Right now. Or I could come over after school, and we could talk about it in person. Could I get your address?"

Tim was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, "I'll text it to you. Yeah, please come over. We'll talk."

Sebastian smiled, though it still hurt. "Okay. See you soon."

"See you."

He ended the call. After a few seconds, Tim's text with the address popped up on the screen.

He was finally going to get some answers, but that wasn't what mattered. He just wanted to see his friend. No matter what was really going on, dumb rumors or not, he wanted to be there for him. Thank God Tim was going to let him.


	5. Sebastian Ives 2

**A/N: **People on tumblr wanted more Ives, and the more I thought about it the more I wanted to write it. So here ya go: Tim and Sebastian's actual conversation. I've maybe made Ives a little more emotionally intelligent than most fourteen-year-old boys, but it's my story and I can do what I want.

* * *

Sebastian was on his last class of the day when he got another text. _Ives, don't freak out, but there will be a driver waiting for you outside the school. No offense or anything. Bruce heard you were coming over and decided it would be safer and quicker to send someone for you. The buses don't exactly run out here._

So surreal, to see his nerdy friend referring to _Bruce Wayne_ as plain ol' "Bruce." Sebaastian guessed it made sense, though. It would probably be more disturbing if Tim referred to his new guardian as "Mr. Wayne." He texted back a simple _k,_ then dazedly made his way out of the school. A few of the other students whistled at him when he got into the big, sleek black car that had driven up for him, but Sebastian didn't pay much attention.

Like yeah, Sebastian's family was doing okay, and he knew Tim's family was well off, but this was still a public school. It was a little weird to be picked up by a chauffeur. But Sebastian guessed he should be getting used to this kind of stuff if Tim was going to be living with the richest man in Gotham from now on. It wasn't like he was going to stop hanging out with Tim.

At Wayne Manor, Tim was waiting for Sebastian at the door. He gave him a kind of sheepish smile and waved away the austere-looking man who was hovering nearby. "It's okay, Alfred. I'll entertain my friend. Okay?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow. He spoke in an honest-to-God English accent. "As you wish, Master Tim. Are you sure you wouldn't at least like some refreshments?"

"Um, maybe later. I'll let you know, okay?"

Alfred nodded and slipped away. Tim was still looking at Sebastian with that sheepish look on his face. "I was thinking we could just go hang out in my room. Cool?"

Sebastian nodded uncertainly. "Yeah, cool."

Tim led the way across the cavernous entry hall to a staircase and up to a residential floor where his bedroom was. Sebastian couldn't help looking around, though he hoped he wasn't staring too obviously. He'd been to Wayne Manor on a field trip when he was in fourth grade, but there was a big difference between visiting a historical house with a bunch of classmates and chaperones as an educational experience and coming to visit his friend who apparently _lived_ there.

Tim's room, in contrast, really wasn't too weird. It was big, and the furnishings were definitely nice, but besides that it looked like a pretty normal teenage boy's room. The desk was covered with messy stacks of textbooks and school supplies, and on a side table was a boombox and a bunch of scattered CDs in no particular order with an empty CD tower waiting to be filled. In the corner was a TV on a short stand with a game console, a cardboard box full of games, and a couple of big, comfy-looking beanbags. Tim's clothes were piled on the floor and strewn over the bed and the chair like the closet had exploded. It looked like everything he owned was just sort of sitting around.

"Um, sorry. I didn't, like, clean up or anything. Alfred would be appalled." Tim fussed with the clothes a bit, shoving away the ones on the bed so they fell on the floor. He cleared a place to sit and patted the bed, clearly inviting Sebastian to join him. "I'm still kind of in the middle of moving, I guess. I haven't put much away yet." He crawled up and sat against the headboard, relaxing on a pile of pillows.

"No big deal. I know you've been recovering or whatever."

Sebastian kicked off his shoes and sat down cross-legged on the bed, facing Tim. He kept looking him over, trying to see if there were any bruises or anything, but Tim looked fine as far as he could tell. A little pale and worn, maybe, like he'd been sick or not getting enough sleep. He was wearing a T-shirt and basketball shorts that fell to his knees, nothing but socks on his feet.

As they sat, Tim snagged a hoodie that had been draped over the head of the bed and pulled it into his lap, fiddling with the laces. He was looking at anything but Sebastian, and he was sitting kind of weird, like his leg hurt or something. Sebastian didn't know what to make of it.

This was so awkward. Sebastian didn't know what to say. He hunched forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Um. What's it like moving in with Bruce Wayne?"

The corner of Tim's mouth turned up. "It's not bad, honest. I know the tabloids paint Bruce as an imbecile with too much money, but he's really nice, and he's not as dumb as people say. He took care of me back a while ago, so I guess it feels more...familiar than anything else, to move back in here."

Sebastian nodded. He'd been friends with Tim back when that was going on, too, but their relationship had been a lot more casual then. He'd never paid much attention to the one guy in his friend group who was living with Bruce Wayne while his dad was in the hospital. Tim was fun to play Wizards & Warriors with, but that was about it.

They'd only really gotten close this year, since they had a bunch of classes and lunch together, and it turned out that Tim Drake was actually a pretty cool dude to talk to and hang out with. They had a lot of interests in common, and Tim usually had something interesting to say, sometimes pulling in perspectives Sebastian had never thought of. Before he knew it, Tim had become the closest of his school friends, and not having him beside him in Western Civ and their other classes together felt like missing a limb.

"But this is permanent now, right?" Sebastian asked hesitantly. "I'm sorry, that's kind of just a rumor, but... I mean, last time, you living here, it was just until your dad got better. But now he's moving away for, like, years? Is he ever coming back?"

Tim's hands clenched in the fabric of the hoodie. "I..." He faltered. "I don't know, actually. For sure. I mean, Bruce..." He looked away, blinking rapidly, then took a deep breath and looked back to Sebastian. He nodded, once, like it hurt him to do it. "Yeah, Bruce says it's permanent. He doesn't..."

He looked up at the ceiling, just breathing. Sebastian sat very, very still. He didn't want to startle him or make him stop talking.

He had a strange, sudden memory of going to the park near his house when he was a kid. His mom let him take handfuls of dry bread custs to throw to the ducks in the pond. He threw a bunch of them, then noticed that another bird was watching him, too. It was a little robin, hopping along the ground, sometimes getting closer and sometimes farther away. Sebastian turned toward it, planning to throw it a crust, and the robin startled into the air and flew several feet off, then landed in the grass again.

Young Sebastian was intrigued. He wondered if the robin would come closer if he tried to show that he wasn't a threat. He laid down on his stomach in the grass and held his last bread crust out in his hand toward the bird. And he lay there, almost holding his breath, waiting to see if the robin would come closer.

It did, slowly, slowly. It would hop closer, then away, always watching Sebastian with one shiny black eye. It was clearly used to getting food from people in the park, but it was also used to being chased by the unruly kids who played here. So Sebastian just held as still as he could, doing his best to show that he wasn't a threat, offering that bread crust and trying to beam out friendliness and harmlessness into the universe. Just hoping the bird would come closer and take the food.

He didn't want to touch it. Didn't want to hurt it or grab it, nothing like that. He just wanted it to come closer. He just wanted to see if he could hold still long enough that it would happen.

In the strange way of memories, Sebastian couldn't remember if that little robin had ever come close enough to grab the bread. Probably not, if he couldn't remember. Most likely he'd gotten bored and given up eventually, or his mom had called for him and he had to leave.

But he remembered that sensation of waiting. Of hoping. Of being very, very still and trying project his friendly intentions into the air. He had the same sensation now.

He didn't want to grab Tim. Didn't want to hurt him. Didn't want to force him or scare him in any way. But he was hoping that he would come closer. Hoping that he would take the bread crust of friendship that Sebastian was holding out to him as he waited with bated breath.

After what felt like a long time, Tim finally looked at him again. "Yeah, it's probably permanent. Bruce doesn't want my dad to see me ever again. And he's, you know, really rich, so he'll probably get his way."

Sebastian wasn't sure he liked that. At least, he didn't like the way Tim said it, the bitter twist to his lip. "Is that... Is that what you want, too?"

Tim blinked. "What I want?" It was like no one had bothered to ask him that.

"Yeah, what you want." Sebastian spread his hands. "Do you _want_ to see your dad again? Do you even want to live here? I know it was all... It was kind of sudden, right? Like, your dad came home from his business trip, and now he's already leaving for Australia, for _years,_ and Bruce Wayne is taking permanent custody of you and doesn't want your dad to see you ever again. That... It must be a lot to get used to."

Tim nodded, looking dazed. Then his eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head at Sebastian. "Aren't you curious about why Bruce doesn't want my dad to see me? You haven't asked any questions about why."

Sebastian's stomach lurched. "Yeah, of course I'm curious about that. But I can... I can guess." He swallowed hard. "Like I said, it was just a rumor, but I heard something... I can guess why, okay? And yeah, maybe I'd like confirmation, but you don't have to give that to me. You don't have to tell me anything. That's your business."

Tim stared at him. "Sorry. I guess... From the way you talked on the phone, I thought you were demanding the whole story."

Sebastian shook his head. "I'm sorry if I gave you that impression. I was just... I just _am_ worried about you, that's all. If you want to tell me what's going on, what happened to you, that's fine. That's cool. I want to hear it. But if you don't want to tell me, that's okay. I know it was bad, okay? I know it was something bad."

He started to reach out, like he was gonna grab Tim's hand or something, then changed his mind and pulled back. _Little robin in the grass,_ he reminded himself. _You have to wait. You have to wait for the bird to come to you._

Tim kept staring. It was frankly a bit unnerving. Then he spoke, and that was unnerving too, his voice flat and almost blank. "My dad beat me with a belt."

Sebastian stared back. He could barely breathe. "Y-your dad..."

Tim nodded. "He beat me with a belt," he repeated, like he was just reciting a fact in class. "It was really bad. He left marks and bruises all over my butt and the backs of my legs. They're still visible, though I'm doing a lot better now. I couldn't move when he was done, it hurt so bad. But they were just bruises and welts. I wasn't lying when I said I'll be back to school in a few days. Bruce just doesn't want to make me go when it still hurts to sit on a hard chair.

"I knew it was abusive, but I didn't want to call the cops. I didn't want to get taken to a foster home. I knew my dad would get me back eventually, so it wouldn't do any good in the long run. It was just the one time. It wasn't even that bad. Lots of other kids have been through worse. And my dad has money. He can make things happen in Gotham. He would have gotten me back.

"I knew it wasn't going to stop. He said he was gonna keep using the belt to keep me in line. I just wanted him not to hit me so hard. I still had Bruce's number in my phone from back when he was my guardian, so I called him to ask for advice. That was all I wanted. Just some advice.

"But Bruce had other ideas. And he has money, too. A lot more money than my dad. So now I'm here, I guess permanently, and Bruce doesn't want my dad to be within five hundred miles of me ever again."

Sebastian felt like he hadn't breathed through that entire story. When Tim stopped, Sebastian held still for a few seconds. Then he pulled in a big gulp of air and bent over with his head in his hands. He felt dizzy, like he had at school, but not as bad. This was just confirmation. Still awful, still horrible, still heart-wrenching, but not as shocking as the revelation in the school office had been.

Before long, the dizziness passed, even without the benefits of a ginger ale. Sebastian raised his head and looked at Tim again. Tim was still staring at him, almost with a look of fascination on his face, like he hadn't known what to expect from Sebastian and he was trying to figure out his reaction.

"Okay," Sebastian said as calmly as he could. "Okay. That all makes sense. Thank you for telling me. But you still haven't answered my question. Is this what you want?"

Tim blinked. A tear ran out of the corner of his eye. "What?"

Sebastian shifted uncomfortably, feeling some sympathetic pain. His parents had spanked him a few times, but never with a belt, and they'd never left marks. Sometimes he sure _thought_ his whole butt was covered with bruises, but when he checked himself in the bathroom mirror, he wasn't even pink. He couldn't imagine how much it must have hurt to be beaten like that.

"I just... I can't help remembering how excited you were about your dad coming back. Don't get me wrong, I'm really glad that Mr. Wayne wants to take care of you, and I don't want your dad to ever hurt you again, either. Like, I really, really don't. But you must be bummed, right? It just... It really sucks that this happened, all of it, but it also sucks that you had to leave your home and you might never see your dad again. Are you okay with that? Is this what you want?"

Tim's tears flowed faster, and his face got redder and redder. Sebastian swallowed, kinda feeling like he was watching a tea kettle about to boil over.

"What I want?" Tim repeated, and he sounded like a tea kettle, too, high and squeaky. Then he burst, like Sebastian had been half expecting, but it still made him jump. Tim threw his hands out to the sides, his face screwed up with tears, and he started to yell. "No, man! Of course this isn't what I wanted! I wanted my dad to talk to me! I wanted my dad to listen to my side of the story!" He hit himself in the chest with both hands so hard that Sebastian winced in sympathy. "I wanted him to love me and care about me, but I guess that's just too much to ask. I guess I'm too difficult, and too wild, and too much of a _problem._ I'm too disrespectful and immature and, and, and all kinds of other things, too, I don't know. I don't know! I don't know what's wrong with me, but I'm sick of it, I'm so sick it, but I don't know how to make it stop."

Tim bent over, his hands balled up into fists and shoved into his eyes. He was crying hard now, like it hurt. Like he was dying.

Sebastian hurt, too. He'd never seen Tim shed a single tear, never mind break down like this. He'd never seen anyone break down this.

He remembered when his grandpa died, and his mom heard about it over the phone and started crying, because that was her dad. Her dad just died. And it sounded awful, really bad, kinda like this. But Sebastian had been little then, and his dad had gently shoved him out of the room and then gone back to take care of his wife. Sebastian had leaned his ear against the door and listened to his mom crying, and his dad saying nice things to her, for a long time.

And he hurt the whole time, just like this. But he'd been too little to help, so eventually he left the door and tried to play quietly in his room. Later, when they came out, his mom's face was all red and puffy, and he went and put his arms around her waist and squeezed as hard as he could. She patted his head and called him her good boy, and that felt good. Sebastian liked being a good boy for his mom.

But this wasn't his mom. Tim was his closest school friend, yeah, but they almost never even touched each other, never mind hugged. Sebastian's throat hurt, and he really, really wanted to hug his buddy, but what if it was weird? What if Tim didn't like it? He didn't want to make things even more awkward, or make Tim feel pressured or uncomfortable.

Still, he couldn't help scooting closer. He couldn't just listen to his friend cry and not do _anything._ After a bit, he reached out and touched Tim's knee. Tim's breath hitched, and his crying slowed down. So Sebastian laid his hand over his knee and gave it a squeeze.

Tim sniffed, hard, then raised his head to look at him. Sebastian pulled his hand back and held it against his stomach. Tim's face was all red and puffy, like his mom's all those years ago, but at least the tears had pretty much stopped. He looked even more tired, though. Sebastian wondered how many times Tim had cried since Bruce Wayne took him away from his dad. Probably a lot.

Sebastian tried to smile, but he know it came out kind of sad and wrong. "I'm sorry, man. I figured this wasn't what you wanted to happen."

Tim shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "No." His voice was wet and wavery. "I just... I just wanted Bruce to help me deal with my dad. But he came over, and he saw my bruises, and he just started making decisions from there. He said he was gonna take care of everything, and he did. And now it's all done, and there's nothing I can do about it, and you're right, this isn't what I wanted."

"Do you still want to live with your dad? Even after he beat you like that?"

Tim's lips pressed together, that stubborn look that Sebastian had seen before when someone tried to argue with him and Tim knew he was right. He even got that look with teachers sometimes. "I don't mind if he feels like he has to spank me to keep me in line. I can take some pain if it makes my dad happy. I just didn't want him to beat me like that anymore."

Sebastian felt sick. "You know that's not really a good plan, right? Your dad... Your dad _abused_ you. That's not in dispute. People like that don't really learn to...lighten up. He needs to never be allowed to hit you again."

"It wasn't even that bad. Other people have had way worse."

"You were out of school for over a week, man. Your guardian still doesn't want you to go back, so you're _still_ in pain. That's bad. That's really bad."

"It was only the one time."

"Even once is too many."

Tim stared at him. Sebastian felt weirdly accomplished. He'd never argued Tim to a standstill before.

He rubbed his hand over his face, poking his fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes, and tried to think. There had to be some way to get through to his buddy on this. His squeezed his eyes shut, thinking, then looked at Tim again.

"Okay, so what did you want Mr. Wayne to actually do? Like, what were you expecting?"

Tim shrugged. "I dunno. I couldn't think of anything. That was why I called him."

"If Mr. Wayne had talked to your dad and just told him to, like... Not to hit you so hard. Do you really think that would have worked? Would your dad have listened to him?"

Tim stared down into his lap, his face thoughtful. At least he wasn't crying anymore. After a moment, he shook his head slowly. "No... I don't think he would have. Dad really hates Bruce, for some reason. I think he would have gotten resentful. Maybe he would have even hit me harder, just to prove he could, because he was in charge of me and not Bruce."

"Or...I know Mr. Wayne is pretty jacked." After learning that his friend was living with Bruce Wayne, Sebastian had read a bunch of articles on his phone about him on the way over. One of them had been for GQ, and the photos had been telling. "If he had threatened your dad, like, just told him never to hit you again or he would mess him up, do you think that would have worked better?"

Tim's mouth twisted. "Maybe."

"Or maybe it would have gone the same way as the previous scenario. Or maybe your dad would have called the cops on Mr. Wayne and charged him for threatening him, because that's illegal, too." Sebastian spread his hands. "I understand how you feel, Drake, I really, really do... But you gotta acknowledge that Mr. Wayne's options were kinda limited, too."

Tim nodded reluctantly. "I guess."

Sebastian nodded more enthusiastically and scooted closer so their knees were almost touching. "I know it hurts, and I know it's hard to see it right now, but I really think Mr. Wayne made the best decision he could at the time. He wanted to make sure your dad could never hurt you again, and he did what he could to make that happen."

Tim sighed and closed his eyes. His expression was conflicted. While he acknowledged Sebastian's arguments, he clearly still thought his dad deserved something out of this situation, when he really, really didn't.

Sebastian thought about it, then went on. "Your safety is the most important thing, man. I know you love your dad, and you want what's best for him, even though he hurt you. But the rest of us, me and Mr. Wayne and whatever other adults were involved in this, we care more about _you,_ here. _You're_ the important one in this scenario. _You're_ the victim, not your dad. You're a kid who was hurt by the guy who should have been taking care of him, and you deserve so, so much better than that. You really do. And I'm really glad you're getting it."

Tim gave him a skeptical look, but he was breaking. Sebastian could see it.

"You said Bruce is really nice, and smarter than people think. He's super big and strong, too. Are you ever afraid that he's gonna hit you? Does he ever make you feel stupid or immature, or yell at you for being disrespectful and wild? When you were living with him before, did he ever leave you alone for weeks and weeks, or be so distant with you that you didn't feel like you could even call him on the phone or send him an email?"

Tim shook his head. Sebastian could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "No. None of that. Ever."

Sebastian nodded decisively. "Then this is a better place for you, Drake. It really, really is. I'm glad you're here. I'm sorry you miss your dad, and I'm sorry he hurt you and ruined everything, but I'm glad you're with Bruce Wayne now. Things are gonna get better for you. I'm sure of it."

Tim looked away. There were tears in his eyes again, but not the same kind as before.

"And hey, if you really want to see your dad again someday, you should talk to Mr. Wayne, right? Tell him how you feel. I'm sure he'll hear you out. He'll probably be able to figure out a way for you to see your dad without being in danger, so at least you can talk about what happened and maybe have some kind of relationship, even if it's not the kind you wanted. It won't be the same, but that's something, right?"

Tim nodded and gave him a shaky smile. "Thanks, Ives."

"Hey, what are friends for?" Sebastian spread his arms, then just sat there for a moment, faltering. "Umm..."

Tim blinked at him. "What?"

"Can I give you a hug? I don't want to make it weird, but I really want to hug you, man."

Tim laughed and dashed his tears away, then nodded shakily. "Yeah, sure. I've been getting a lot of hugs lately, from a lot of people. One more couldn't hurt."

"Good. I'm glad you're getting a lot of hugs." Sebastian leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his buddy, and Tim put his arms around him in return. Tim felt small and damp and a little shaky in his grip, but it was a good hug. They patted each other's backs in unison, twice, then let go and leaned back.

Tim was still smiling, more genuinely now. He gestured at the beanbags next to the TV and game console. "Wanna play some video games? Alfred is expecting you to stay for dinner, and then another car can take you home. You told your parents you were coming here, right?"

Sebastian nodded and climbed off the bed. "Yeah, I talked to Mom on the way over. She was glad to hear you're doing okay and getting better. What games do you have?"

They wiled away the rest of the afternoon playing video games, lounging on the beanbags, yelling at each other and laughing at each other's jokes. Supper was fancier than Sebastian was used to, but not completely crazy. Tim said Alfred had "toned it down" at his request. Sebastian also met Bruce Wayne himself, which was a trip. In person, he really wasn't as dumb as the tabloids suggested. And he was nice, too. He shook Sebastian's hand warmly and told him that he was welcome anytime, and he was glad that Tim had such a good friend from school.

When the driver came to pick Sebastian up, Tim walked him to the door. Sebastian didn't ask for permission this time, just grabbed him into a hug. Tim kind of melted into it, so Sebastian held on longer than he might have otherwise.

"You're gonna talk to Mr. Wayne about your dad, right?" he murmured in Tim's ear.

Tim nodded against his shoulder. Sebastian let go and gave him a grin. "Okay. See you in school in a few days, then."

"See you then."

Tim waved good-bye as Sebastian drove away, and he leaned against the back windshield of the car and waved back, feeling like a little kid. He was just really happy that his friend was safe and okay. Tim was in a good place now, finally, and he was going to be loved and cared for the way he deserved.

Sebastian sat back in his seat, grinning at nothing and no one. He felt that weird sense of accomplishment again, but this time it made perfect sense. He had proved that he could be still, be patient. He could wait for the little robin to come to him.

And it was totally, totally worth it.


	6. Jack Drake

**A/N: ****Trigger Warning:** Abuse justification from the point of view of the abuser. This is not a pleasant chapter, folks. Let me know if you'd like me to just put a chapter summary at the end.

Yes, there will be a follow-up, probably soon. I can't leave it like this.

* * *

Jack sat in his favorite armchair, staring at the piles of boxes that surrounded him. Dana would say he was brooding, if she could see him. He would laugh and deny it, declaring that he was being scholarly and cogitating on ancient mysteries, while inwardly knowing she was right. But he would rouse himself for her sake, try to more cheerful, more involved. Ask her what she wanted to do, dinner, a movie? A trip? Anything you want, honey, the world is our oyster.

But Dana wasn't here anymore. She'd come, said her piece, and left. She was never coming back.

So yes, Jack was brooding. Who could blame him? His life had fallen apart in the last two weeks. He'd lost control. Nothing was the way it should be. Yes, yes, Wayne had kept his word and kept it out of the papers, besides a generic puff piece about his grand move across the world in search of more knowledge. But that was small consolation to what he'd lost.

Jack's cellphone rang, and he was so startled that he almost knocked it off the arm of the chair where it had been resting. He eyed it warily. Most of his friends and colleagues had already said their farewells, and he'd made all the arrangements he needed to make for the move and the travel. There was no reason for anyone to call him.

He picked up the phone and looked at the name. Bruce Wayne. A hot surge of anger flooded through him, and he almost threw the phone across the room. He didn't, though. Wayne was one of the few people in the world who might actually need to talk to him. Maybe there was something about the paperwork, some last-minute detail that needed to be ironed out.

So Jack gritted his teeth and accepted the call. "Wayne."

"Hello, Jack." Bruce's voice was cool, but not hostile. Of course not. He'd won. "There's something I'd like to discuss with you before you leave, something I hope you'll be able to fit in. It's about Tim."

Despite himself, Jack's heart jolted in his chest at the name of his son. His former son, more like. He laid his hand over his chest and gripped, hard, fingers digging into his flesh. "What about him?"

Wayne paused, then sighed. "He wants to talk to you, Jack."

Jack couldn't breathe for a moment. This made no sense. "Why? What could he possibly have to say to me?"

There was an almost audible tooth-grinding sound over the line. "Please, Jack. Try to think about this from Tim's point of view. He didn't intend for this to happen. All he wanted was for you to be a little less harsh with him. I was the one who made the decision to take him away from you when I saw what...what you'd done to him. He still loves you, despite what you did. He misses you, and he feels guilty for the way things ended. He wants to say good-bye. He wants some kind of closure."

Jack realized he hadn't blinked during this entire speech. He'd just been staring so hard that his eyes were now dry and burning. "He feels guilty for what he did? Good. He should."

"Jack!" Wayne shouted briefly, then went silent, breathing through his teeth. After a few moments, he gathered himself and spoke again, much more calmly. "Tim is blameless. Completely blameless. You are the one who abused him, and I am the one who chose to remove him from your care. You can't..." He huffed noisily and muttered aside. "This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea."

Jack held onto the phone, feeling grimly satisfied. Listening to Wayne struggle to put words together was cathartic. That stupidly rich, richly stupid jackass thought he could come into Jack's home, take his son, just throw money around and arrange the world to his wishes? And now he wanted something from _Jack Drake,_ the man he had so thoroughly belittled and destroyed? The books were right. Vengeance was sweet.

Eventually Wayne's voice came back on the line. "Jack, I'm begging you. Think of Tim and what he needs. He needs to see you face-to-face and say good-bye. It won't cost you anything to give that to him, and it will mean the world to him. Please. He's your _son."_

"Oh, is he?" Jack asked caustically. "I thought you said he wasn't my son and never had been."

Wayne hissed through his teeth. "Regardless of my feelings, and the way you treated him, Tim still considers you to be his father. He still looks up to you. He still wants your approval. Please, just...for _once_ in your life, do what's right for Tim, not what's most comfortable for you. It's the least you can do for him. It's the _only_ thing you can do for him, at this point."

Jack settled his head against the back of his armchair. "I want a bigger stipend."

Wayne sounded stupefied. "What? Jack, be reasonable. I'm already giving you $2500 a month in personal funds, never mind funding the rest of your expedition as well. To say nothing of your own assets, which will be completely at your disposal as well."

"It's not enough, not for my lifestyle. Double it, and I'll agree to see Tim. But it has to be alone."

"Unacceptable," Wayne growled. "You will _never_ be alone in a room with Tim again. I won't allow it."

"Fine. But at least you can't be there."

"Will you agree to a third-party observer? We can use the office of my family lawyer downtown."

"If we're using a lawyer, I want mine. Greeley & Stocks, down on Jersey Avenue. They're a respectable establishment. Surely you can't object."

"Fine," Wayne growled again, sounding even more like an angry bear. "But my eldest son and I will be right outside the door."

"Not a problem, as long as I don't have to look at you. You agree to double the stipend?"

Wayne sighed. "Yes. Fine. I will. On the condition that you don't breathe a word to Tim about this situation being his fault. It wasn't his fault, not in the slightest, and I won't have you pouring poison into his mind. You see him, you let him say what he needs to say, you express your regrets, you say good-bye. And then you leave. That's it. Got it?"

"Yes. Fine. Whatever. I agree."

"All right. I'll see you at Greeley & Stocks in an hour."

Wayne hung up before Jack could protest that they hadn't agreed on a time. He stared at his phone for a second, fuming, then put it down. It didn't matter. He smiled, slow and grim and satisfied. He'd gotten what he'd wanted.

An hour later, Jack sat in a conference room at Greeley & Stocks, drumming his fingers on the table as he waited. One of the younger lawyers in the firm, Bradley Cochran, sat next to him with a legal notepad and pen. He was pale and nervous, constantly wiping his hands on his trousers. Probably because he'd been tasked to do a job for Bruce Wayne, the fucking prince of Gotham, and he didn't want to screw it up. Jack couldn't care less about this punk and his problems. He didn't bother talking to him or even looking at him beyond cursory glances to make sure he wasn't going to puke or pass out or anything else embarrassing.

Jack was looking at his watch for the third time when the door finally swung open and Wayne himself came in. He was wearing a stylish suit, and his brow was low, lips flattened. Jack jerked upright in his seat. "Hey! I said I didn't..."

"You didn't want to see me, I know." Wayne didn't sit down, just stood across the table from Jack and placed his hands flat on the surface, leaning over it to glower at him. "I just wanted to remind you of our agreement."

"The thing we discussed only an hour ago? Yeah, yeah. I remember."

"Do not be cruel to your child, Jack. I can't believe I have to tell you this, but I truly believe that I do. Just listen to what he has to say and try to show even a scrap of sympathy, and you're done. You'll never have to have anything to do with him ever again. You can live your life without the burden of a family, just as you've always wanted."

Jack clenched his jaw, so angry he could barely breathe. "Stop telling me how to father my son," he forced out through the gritted teeth. "Your threats mean nothing to me. You've already done your worst."

"That's what you never understood about me, Jack. I could always do much, much worse to you. I just choose not to. Not for your sake, but for Tim's." Wayne stood straight, his hands clasped behind his back, and frowned down at him. "Despite everything, he loves you, and that deserves respect. I'm very, _very_ invested in causing as little distress to him as possible. So please, take this opportunity to spend one last hour with your kind, talented, remarkable boy. Do not squander it on your petty grudges. Understood?"

Jack ground his teeth. He despised being talked down to and ordered to heel like a dog. _$5000 a month,_ he kept reminding himself. "Understood."

Wayne nodded curtly, then turned on his heel and left. Jack heard murmuring in the hallway, a couple of voices, then a much quieter one. He picked up his head, his hands going still on the table. Tim. That was Tim's voice.

Then the door open, and Tim came in. He wasn't wearing a suit, but a dress shirt and loose slacks. He stood by the door for a moment, just staring at Jack with huge eyes. He didn't look great: a little pale and shaky, like he'd been sick or something. He almost seemed scared to move, which frustrated Jack to no end. What right did Tim have to look at him like that, like Jack was some kind of monster, when he was the one who had ruined everything?

_$5000 a month._ Jack shook his head and put on a strained smile, then gestured to other side of the table. "Come on in, Timmy."

Tim managed a nervous smile, but made his way over and sat in the chair. "You haven't called me that since I was a baby."

Jack shrugged. "Seemed appropriate. Wayne said you had something you wanted to say to me. Go ahead."

Tim's smile faded instantly. He looked down at his hands, folded on the table in front of him. He took a couple of deep breaths, then looked up at his father. "I...I'm sorry things turned out like this. I didn't want this."

Jack nodded curtly. "Neither did I."

Tim rubbed his hands over his eyes, breathing heavily. There might have been tears there, but if so Jack didn't catch them. "I know you were just... You were just trying to parent me. Discipline me."

Jack clenched his teeth together, the words jamming up in his throat. He wanted to yell. He wanted to scream.

"But you, you really hurt me, you know. I... Bruce still hasn't let me go back to school because I've been in too much pain. This is the first day I've been able to sit in a wooden chair. The bruises were really deep."

"It wasn't that bad," Jack rapped out. "People used to spank their kids that hard all the time. Modern dads are just too soft. You needed some old-fashioned discipline, and I gave it to you."

Tim kept his head down, not looking at him. He seemed disappointed, but then, Jack had never been very good at reading him. Tim had always been opaque, a closed book. Even when Jack thought things were going well between them, the damn kid was always staying out too late and sneaking around, never honest about where he'd been and what he'd been doing. Jack had searched his room for drugs more than once, but he'd never found anything. He still had no idea what his son had been doing all those times he was out.

He didn't care anymore. Tim was Bruce Wayne's problem now. Let him deal with the hiding, the sneaking, the lying, the distrust and disrespect. Jack washed his hands of it willingly.

"Never mind," Tim said softly. He raised his head to look at Jack again. "I hope things go well for you in Australia."

"Yeah, me too." Jack leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

"If you want to, you could...email me sometime? Tell me about your work? I'd really love to hear about it."

Jack said nothing for a long moment. "I don't know, son. I'll be very, very busy once the work gets started."

"Oh." Tim bit his lower lip. "I mean, I know. Of course. You'll be too busy. Never mind." He looked down at his hands, fingers fidgeting together. Jack wanted to grab them, make them stop, but he kept his arms folded across his chest. "I know your work is important. I just..."

Tim was quiet for a little while, then finally looked at Jack again. Yes, those were tears in his eyes. For some reason, they didn't spark even the slightest glint of sympathy or regret in Jack. He just found them frustrating and annoying. How dare Tim cry, how dare he be sad, when it was because of him that all this had happened?

"I just... I still want to be able to talk to you someday. I know this, I know all this is hard, and you're upset about it, but you're still my dad. I still care about you, I still want to know how you're doing. I wish things were different, but..."

"Wish?" Jack couldn't stand it anymore. He stood up from his chair so fast that it squealed against the floor. He slapped his hands down on the table, and Tim jumped about a foot in the air. So did the useless Cochran, who had said nothing and done nothing so far, just sat there looking between them as they talked like he was watching a tennis match.

Jack kept his voice low but intense, conveying his indignation with body language and tone rather than volume. He wished he could growl like Wayne, but his voice didn't have quite that timbre. "You wish things were different, Tim? Do you really? You could have _made_ them be different, you know. This is all because of you!"

Tim shrank back in his chair, his arms wrapped tightly around his body, eyes wide. "I, I'm sorry," he practically whimpered. "Please, Dad, I know you're angry about losing me, but..."

"Losing _you?"_ Jack stood straight and ran his hand through his hair. "You decided you didn't want to be my son anymore, and you ran away to that imbecile Bruce Wayne. That's fine, I can live with that. But that wasn't enough for you, was it? No, you had to go and open your big mouth and tell _Dana_ all about it, too. Twisting what I'd done into a mockery, turning her against me! She came over all in a hissy fit, yelled at me, blamed me!" He struck himself in the chest. "As if all of it was _my_ fault! And then she _dumped_ me! Me! All because you couldn't keep your damn mouth shut!"

Tim was silent, cringing in his chair and staring at him like he was expecting Jack to lunge across the table and just start waling on him with his fists. This, paradoxically, made Jack even more angry at him. How did this stupid kid not understand that Jack just didn't care about him anymore? He didn't matter. At all.

Cochran was standing too, waving his hands at Jack like he was trying to put out a fire with a handkerchief. "Please, Mr. Drake, I have to remind you that you are not permitted to touch young Mr. Drake..."

Jack whirled on him, seething. "Oh, _you_ think I'm just gonna start beating my kid, too?" He pointed at Cochran's vacated chair. "Sit down, idiot!"

Cochran fell into the chair like he'd been shot.

Jack whirled back to Tim, who hadn't moved a hair. He planted his hands on the table like Wayne had done earlier and leaned over into his space. Tim somehow made himself even smaller. "Let me make this very, very clear," he said, low and furious. "I don't care about you. I don't care about what happens to you from this day forward. Not one single iota. Oh, I tried to care about you. I really did. After I recovered from being poisoned, and I found myself with a new life with no mobility and no Janet, but what I thought was a loving son devoted to caring for me, I told myself that I would devote myself to you in return.

"I tried so _hard_ with you, Timothy Jackson. When I got my mobility back, I spent so much time with you, trying to get to know you. But it never worked. We never clicked. And that devotion faded, didn't it? When I stopped being dependent on you, stopped needing your help. You had so many other more important things to do than listen to your old man.

"So much _deception._ So much _disrespect._ I gave you everything, everything you've ever had, and you choose to repay me with _this?_ Not only running to Bruce Wayne the first time I tried to get you under control, but then you turned Dana against me too! That's the part I can never, never forgive. You cost me the love of my life. You cost me _everything._ I never want to see you again."

Jack sat back down in his chair, breathing hard. _$5000 a month,_ he remembered, too late. Oh well. It had been worth it.

Tim sat frozen, cowering, for another handful of seconds. He just stared at Jack, white-faced and trembling. Then he stood abruptly and bolted out of the room, never looking back. Jack heard his footsteps pounding down the hall, Bruce Wayne shouting behind him. Then the footsteps faded, and Jack couldn't tell where they went.

He closed his eyes and clenched his fists, breathing slowly and deliberately. A rush of triumph flooded through him, and he raised his fists in a pose of victory. It was done. He'd gotten his wish.

He was never going to see that brat again, and he was glad of it.


	7. Clark Kent

The sun was getting lower in Metropolis, and Clark was heading home after dealing with a car accident that could have been much worse and a few robberies that never happened. A call came in over his JLA communicator, and he instantly found a perch on a skyscraper and answered it. Three ticks at the beginning of the connection told him that this was solo call, straight from Bruce. He wasn't sure quite how it worked, but he knew that Bruce could even reach him on his cellphone with this. This was the first time he'd ever done so, though.

Just the fact that Bruce was calling him like this put Clark instantly on edge. It must be some kind of emergency, and it must be incredibly dire. Was all of Gotham on fire? A major breakout? Another earthquake? A terrorist attack? Even in most of those situations, Bruce still preferred to handle it alone or with his in-city team. Perhaps this was a worldwide crisis.

Bruce didn't waste time on pleasantries, either. "Clark, I need you in Gotham." He sounded as stressed as Clark had ever heard him. Clark started looking at the horizon, sweeping his eyes around, watching for encroaching alien ships or a similar level of threat.

"You need me and I'm there, you know that. What's the situation? Where should I meet you?"

Bruce blew out a breath. "I'm on the roof of Greeley & Stocks, a legal firm on Jersey Avenue. It's... Clark, it's Tim."

Clark stiffened, his back ramrod-straight. Robin hadn't been seen anywhere for at least two weeks. In his day job, Clark was aware of whispers in the gossip rags that something at least semi-scandalous was going on with Bruce Wayne. No one had been able to get the inside scoop yet, though plenty were trying. Clark had tried not to make any connections between those two items of information himself, but at this point it was hard to deny. "Is Tim okay?"

"He... No. No, he's not okay." Bruce's voice was agitated, and Clark could hear his footsteps. He was pacing. "You can follow my heartbeat, my biometrics. Dick's, too. Have you spent enough time around Tim to be able to do the same for him?"

Clark closed his eyes, thinking back to the handful of meetings he'd had with Batman's third Robin. He liked the boy; everyone who knew him even slightly did. He was compassionate and thoughtful and hardworking, but could also be playful and even funny when he wanted to be. He was good for Bruce, very good, and that alone was enough to endear him very close to Clark's heart. But Tim would have earned that on his own, too. Easily.

"Yes, I could. Do you want me to?"

"Yes. Please. He ran off into the city, without his uniform, without backup. Nightwing is already out combing the streets for him, but I'll have to make a stop at the penthouse to suit up. He's... Clark, when you find him..." He laughed almost bitterly. "I can't believe I was just about to tell _you_ of all people to be gentle with a hurting young boy. Of course you will."

Clark's voice was hushed. "Bruce, what happened?"

"His father..." Brief silence, then Bruce rapped it all out, factual and steady, like a report. It didn't make it any easier to listen to, but maybe it made it easier to say. "Two weeks ago, Jack Drake beat his son with a belt so badly that Tim could barely move afterward. He had the good sense to call me for help, and I removed him from that house immediately. I was able to make arrangements to send Jack Drake to the other side of the world and also persuaded him to sign custody of Tim over to me. It's iron-clad, that's not the problem.

"Unsurprisingly, Tim has been very distressed and grief-stricken by this sudden turn of events. I was able to arrange a meeting with a third-party observer so Tim could say good-bye to his father and hopefully find some closure. I don't want to say I hoped that Jack would be kind to him, but I at least had some expectation of him being civil."

The fear and rage of a father was pushing through Bruce's calm now, disrupting his factual report. "I certainly didn't expect him tear into the boy the way he did. He... Clark, he was cruel. Utterly cruel. After I specifically warned him not to be. I was able to get a transcript from the third-party observer, and it's..." Bruce sighed. "I don't blame Tim at all for reacting the way he did. He was so upset that he ran off, and you know how quick and nimble he is. He managed to dodge both me and Dick and got up on the roof, somehow, then lost himself in the city. I have no idea where he is, and it's going to get dark soon. If Tim doesn't want to be found, I'm not going to be able to find him. So I'm hoping you'll be able to instead."

"Of course." The answer came instantly, the tone almost harsh. Clark's hands were clenched into fists, and he was breathing slowly and steadily to keep his temper under control. "I won't bother meeting you on that roof, just head straight to Tim. Once I find him, I'll call you."

"Okay." Bruce sucked in a breath like his head had just broken the surface of the water. He breathed deliberately, in and out. "Okay."

"Serious question, though, before I take off."

"Shoot."

"Do you want me to burn down Jack Drake's house? I rather feel like I should burn down his house. The ol' heat vision is getting itchy."

Bruce laughed, short and surprised and not a little delighted. "No. It's Tim's house, too. I'd rather not cause him anymore distress, not if we can avoid it."

"Understood. Still, if you think of anything that belongs solely to Jack that needs to be burned down..."

"I'll let you know. See you soon."

"Yes. Await my call."

With that, Clark took off for Gotham. The supersonic speed would have made talking impractical, which was why he'd finished his conversation with Bruce before leaving Metropolis. Once he arrived, he hovered over Gotham and closed his eyes, listening to the cacophony of humanity below him.

It was a bit of a misnomer to say that Superman and his fellow Kryptonians could follow people by their heartbeats. The vast majority of heartbeats sounded very similar, and even the same heart had different rhythms and speeds at different times, making tracking them almost impossible. But there was a system of biometrics that all added up to single person, like a fingerprint: the heartbeat, the breath, the little muscular tics and twitches, the way they blinked, even the sound of their blood rushing through their veins.

It took him a few minutes to sort through it all to find the signature of the boy he was looking for, but once he found it, he would not be shaken off the trail. Clark opened his eyes and began to fly, following Tim's biometric signature like a bloodhound. When he got close enough, he realized that Tim was hiding on the roof of a residential building, tucked between an AC unit and the back wall of someone's pigeon coop.

He was so intently focused on Tim, to the exclusion of all else, that he didn't realize someone else was there until he set down on the roof, light as a petal. A woman was crouched near where Tim was hidden, trying to talk to him. A woman in a catsuit.

She was worried.

"You look awfully familiar," she was saying. "I feel like I've been in this exact situation before, finding a kid all curled up on a roof somewhere when he ought to be at home. You're Robin, aren't you? You don't have to tell me your real name, I'm not asking that. But you look like you're in trouble. Should I call the Bat for you, kiddo?"

Clark stepped up behind her. Over her shoulder, he saw Tim "all curled up" as Catwoman had described, knees pulled up to his chest and face hidden against them. He didn't look like he had any intention of answering her. Catwoman looked over her shoulder at Clark's footstep, eyes going wide. "Supes! You know this kid?"

Clark smiled, his "hero" smile, Lois called it. "I do. I'll take it from here."

Catwoman stood to face him, unconsciously putting herself between the boy and Superman. It was an admirable impulse, and Clark couldn't help smiling genuinely at her. She seemed on edge, though, running her clawed fingers through her long, curly hair. "Am I right? Is that Robin? What happened to him?"

Clark hesitated. "I'm not at liberty to say."

Catwoman scoffed. "Please. There's only one reason Superman would be in Gotham without a crisis of world-ending proportions centered on the city. Batman called you for help when his boy went missing, didn't he?"

Clark inclined his head. "Clearly you are too smart for me, madam."

Catwoman turned her lithe body to look back at Tim, who hadn't moved at all. "Something bad happened to him," she said in a low voice. She whirled back to Clark, mouth drawn in a grimace. "He flinched when I tried to touch him."

Clark winced.

"Someone hurt that child. I was starting to suspect the Bat. He's Robin's father, isn't he?"

Clark shook his head. "No, not this Robin." He hesitated. "But he wants to be. Very badly."

Understanding flowed over her face. "Oh. It was the kid's bio-dad."

Clark nodded, his fists clenching again.

"Got it." She nodded curtly, then started to walk away. At the last moment before she was out of reach, she turned back to put a hand on Clark's shoulder and look him in the eye. He looked back at her, straight-backed and serious.

"Take care of him," she said. "He's a good one."

Clark gave her a smile that was much smaller and more intimate than the one before. "I will."

She gave him one last nod, then jumped off the roof. Clark watched long enough to see her grappling away. He hoped she wasn't going to go rob something and cause trouble for Bruce later, but somehow he had the feeling that she was going to take the night off.

That settled, Clark turned back to where Tim was hiding. He took a couple of steps closer and got down on his knees, craning his head to look at the boy. "Tim?" he asked softly. "Is it all right if I sit with you?"

Tim didn't look up, didn't raise his head off his knees. But he managed a nod, small and almost invisible.

Clark sat next to him on the pebbly roof and scooted closer until their sides touched. He put his arm around the boy, enveloping him with his cape, and held him carefully against his side. Tim's body was small and chilled in the circle of his arm, and Clark bent his head over him, too, protecting him from the cool of the oncoming night.

"Bruce will kill me for not calling him right away," he murmured. "But I have a feeling you're not ready to see him yet."

Tim nodded shakily against his knees.

"Okay. No problem. We can just sit here for a bit."

So they did. After a bit, Clark felt Tim's body shaking, and he knew he was crying. He didn't say anything, didn't try to stop him. He just brought his other hand around and rested it on the top of Tim's head, large and heavy, like a hat.

Tim leaned into his side, slowly going limp. His knees fell down, and his arms wrapped around his body instead. He still didn't show his face, instead hiding it against Clark's side. Clark held him close.

Eventually, he felt Tim's tears slow down, then stop. He just rested there, breathing. He turned his head and looked forward, though he made no attempt to meet Clark's eyes. His face was red and flushed, and tears still clung to his eyelashes. The last shreds of sunset were lingering in the sky.

"Are you ready for me to call Bruce?" Clark asked. "He's very worried about you."

Tim shook his head. "Not yet, please." His voice was rough and unsteady.

"Okay."

Tim took a deep, shaky breath. "I just...I feel so stupid."

Clark tightened his arm around him just a fraction. "Why?"

Tim breathed raggedly. "For...for ever thinking that I meant something to my dad. I've always known his work was more important. His, his other relationships were more important. It was... It was so dumb of me to even think that he would want to see me before he left. That he would care. I made such an idiot of myself."

Clark's heart _hurt._ It felt like a dozen tiny stars were exploding inside him. Never mind burning down Jack Drake's house. He wanted to beat him to death with his own hands.

"You are not stupid for expecting your father to care about you," Clark said roughly, holding the boy closer to his side. "That's the way things are supposed to be. That's the way they _would_ be if your father was any kind of decent man. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"I am, though. I'm so, so ashamed. Isn't that stupid?"

"No." Clark wrapped his other arm around him as well and held him fiercely.

"I wasted everybody's time, asking for that meeting. I caused so much trouble. I'm such an idiot."

"No, Tim. You are not an idiot. You are a kind, good, brave young man who deserves much, much better than what you've gotten in terms of parenting. I know Bruce agrees with me, and I'm sure Dick does, too, as well as Alfred and anyone else who knows you and knows what's been happening to you lately."

Tim was quiet for a few moments, breathing raggedly. "I still feel so stupid," he whispered. "I was stupid to hope that things could be different, this time."

"It is never stupid to hope," Clark said firmly. "And things _are_ going to be much, much different for you from now on. I'm sure of it."

Tim sniffled and nodded into his side. "I know," he murmured.

"Bruce loves you, kiddo. A whole, whole lot. I know he's bad at showing it, but he really does. You know, when he called me on our direct communicator, I thought there was some kind of planetary crisis going on? Catwoman was right. There are only two reasons Batman would call Superman for help: a huge, enormous, world-ending catastrophe, or his kid being missing."

Tim smiled, small and sad but still sweet and endlessly precious. Clark's heart lurched in his chest.

"And you know why? Because they feel the same to him."

Tim's smile got a little more real, and he ducked his head and hid his face against Clark's side in embarrassment. Clark grinned and rubbed his shoulder roughly, trying to warm him and cheer him. "Okay. Are you feeling a little better? Would it be okay if I called Bruce now? He must be out of his mind, wondering what's taking me so long to find you."

Tim nodded into his side. "Okay."

Clark huffed out a breath in (slightly exaggerated) relief, then finally keyed his comm. "Bruce, I found him."

Ten minutes later, Batman was on the roof with them. Clark saw his shoulders slump in relief when he spotted Clark sticking out of Tim's little hiding place. He strode over, pulling off his cowl as he went. "Tim? Are you there?"

Clark gently extricated himself from the boy and stood up, making room for Bruce to sweep in and pull his lost-and-found kid into his arms, crushing him against his body. "Tim! Don't _do_ that."

"'M sorry," Tim said sheepishly, muffled against Bruce's chest armor. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"Well, you did." Bruce pulled back and held him by his shoulders, looking him up and down anxiously. "Are you okay?"

Tim started to nod, then hesitated and shook his head, his face crumpling. Bruce pulled him back to his chest just as the poor kid started to cry again. He'd been able to keep himself calm with Clark, but seeing his mentor, his real father no matter what the law might say, brought it all back again.

Bruce knelt on the roof and held his boy to his heart, rocking him gently in his arms. "It's okay," he murmured. "It's okay, it's okay. You're safe now. You never have to see him again. I won't let him hurt you. Never again."

A couple minutes later, Nightwing arrived, tucking and rolling as he came in way too fast and hot. He popped up to his feet, a little breathless, a piece of gravel stuck in his hair, and spotted Clark. "Oh. Hey, Uncle Clark!"

Clark pointed to where Bruce and Tim were still sitting on the roof, wrapped up in each other's arms. Dick bolted to join them, skidding down on his knees as his blue-striped arms circled them both. "Timmy! Thank God."

Tim turned slightly in Bruce's arms and snaked an arm around Dick's side, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit. He didn't say anything, just held on and let himself be held. He was still crying, but softly now, weary and sad.

Clark backed up a step, scuffing his foot on the roof as he went to draw Bruce's attention. Bruce looked up, and Clark gave him a wave. _Call me later,_ he mouthed.

Bruce nodded, and Clark took off, back to his home and the family he loved. He needed to hug some folks, too. And if he maybe held on a little too long and held them a little too hard, he knew they would understand.


	8. Tim Drake

It was a good thing the next day was Saturday, because Tim really didn't want to get out of bed. He woke up several times over the course of the night, each time surprised by the heaviness and sadness that weighed him down, body and soul, until he remembered what had happened the day before. Then he just lay there in bed, trying not to cry, until he inevitably failed and cried himself to sleep, only to wake again a few hours later. It was a miserable cycle, one that he could not break.

When morning came, he barely recognized it as such. It wasn't until he realized that there was light streaming in the window that he understood this wasn't just another awful waking in the middle of the night. Other than the light in the window, it felt exactly the same. He was terribly thirsty and had an awful headache pounding inside his skull. But he couldn't stomach the idea of trying to get up, even just to get a glass of water and crawl back into bed. He didn't have the strength.

He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. His body had been too well-trained to rouse at this time of day, even after sleepless nights. He typically came home from Robin at about two in the morning, woke at seven for school, then took a nap in the afternoon and evening after finishing his homework before heading out again. Even with his two weeks off, he hadn't quite broken that cycle. He wished he could, though. He didn't want to be awake.

After about ten minutes of trying to go back to sleep and feeling more and more frustrated that he couldn't, Tim admitted defeat. He rolled over on his back and looked at the ceiling. He didn't want to be awake, true. But more than that, he didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be Bruce's foster kid, or ward, or whatever they were going to call it.

He didn't really want to go home, though, either. Had that ever really been his home? Had Jack ever wanted him at all? Or had Tim always been a burden, a nuisance? Unwanted and unloved? After what happened yesterday, Tim suspected the latter.

No, he didn't want to go back to that empty house on the other side of the property. He didn't want to sit in the ash and ruins, the destruction he had both wrought and had wrought upon him. He didn't want the reminder of how things could have been if he'd just been more attentive, more respectful, a better son, a better person.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands over his chest, trying to hold it all inside. It wasn't just that he didn't want to be here, when he really thought about it. No, he didn't want any of this. He didn't want to be this person, this useless lump of a human being who did nothing but fail and fail and fail. He didn't want to be Tim Drake.

But he couldn't escape it. He couldn't run away from his life. Tim Drake was Robin, and Batman needed Robin, so he had to keep being Robin. He had to keep being Tim Drake. But he really, really didn't want to.

He rolled over on his side and stared out the window. What if he ran away? Back to Europe, to the martial arts master in Paris he'd never finished learning from. Maybe a good few weeks of getting the tar beaten out of him would help him settle this stupid malaise. Or he could find Lady Shiva, maybe, see if she wanted to teach him again. Or kill him. She could just kill him. That might be better.

Suddenly terrified of his own thoughts, Tim curled up in a ball and covered his mouth with his hands, eyes squeezing shut. What was wrong with him? Why would he think something like that? Was he really this weak, this pathetic? He didn't want to be.

Bruce would be so disappointed if he knew Tim was having thoughts like this. Dick would cry. Alfred would...

Here, Tim's thoughts stuttered. He wasn't sure what Alfred do. Serve him tea, probably. Tell him to keep a stiff upper lip, maybe. Try to reassure him that things would get better, Tim just had to hang on.

But he had been doing that. He'd been hanging on for two weeks now, and nothing seemed to be getting better at all. If anything, it was getting worse.

Oh, he had his good days. Dana's visit had been a good day. Talking to Sebastian had been a good day. Every now and then he thought he saw a glimpse of light through the heavy clouds that seemed to surround him. But then the clouds thickened again, obscuring the light, and he was left feeling just as sad and lost and worthless as before.

Of course, yesterday had been the worst day of all. Tim couldn't get his father's words out of his head. _This is all because of you. All because you couldn't keep your damn mouth shut. I don't care about you. You cost me everything. I never want to see you again._

_I don't care about what happens to you from this day forward. Not one single iota._

Tim's fingers dug into his hair and clenched until his scalp ached and burned. He felt like a black hole had opened up in his belly, sucking everything away. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be Tim Drake. He wanted to stop existing.

A gentle knock came at the door, followed by Alfred's voice. "Master Tim, may I come in?"

Tim curled up tighter and covered his face again. His throat felt tight and hot. He couldn't muster the strength to speak, affirmative or negative.

Alfred waited a few moments, then spoke again. His voice sounded somehow both quieter and closer, as if he was leaning on the door and lowering his voice. "I'm going to come in and check on you, Master Tim. If you'd rather I don't come in, you must say something now."

Tim said nothing. After a few seconds, he heard the door open, and Alfred's crisp footsteps approached the bed. Tim shifted a little, uncomfortable with Alfred seeing him like this, but he didn't uncurl his body or pull his hands off his face.

Alfred sighed gently, and the bedsheets rustled as he sat on the edge of the bed. His firm, careful fingers began brushing through Tim's hair. It reminded him of that first night, when Alfred stormed out of the room after Bruce told him what happened. When Alfred came back, he'd crouched next to Tim's head and petted his hair like this.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Alfred asked. His voice was the softest Tim had ever heard it.

Tim shook his head.

"You clearly need to talk to someone. Shall I fetch Master Bruce for you? Or Master Dick? He spent the night here after yesterday's tumultuous events."

Tim shook his head more vigorously, horrified at the idea of either of his oldest heroes seeing him being such a weakling, unable even to get out of bed.

Alfred rested his hand on the side of his head, a gentle weight that was somehow welcome, grounding. "Someone else then? Ms. Winters? Mr. Ives? They both seemed quite proficient at lifting your spirits."

Tim finally stirred, rolling his head away from Alfred's hand and pulling his hands down to his chest so he could look at him. Alfred withdrew his hand to his lap and regarded him quietly.

"I don't want..." Tim's voice rasped against his dry throat. He worked his mouth a bit and tried again. "I don't deserve..."

He fell silent, cheeks flaming. He hadn't meant to say that.

Alfred was frowning now. "You don't deserve to have your spirits raised?"

Tim nodded, then rolled his face down to hide in the pillow.

"My dear boy, you deserve the world. The fact that you believe otherwise is the clearest indictment of your father's parenting that I can imagine. He failed you egregiously, and I'm very displeased that his words yesterday have done even more harm to you."

Tim shrugged. Alfred was quiet for a moment longer, then sighed and began to rise. "I shall fetch Master Dick."

Tim's hand shot out and grabbed Alfred by the wrist. Alfred stood still for a second, then sat down again. "Do you wish to talk to me now?"

Tim hesitated, then slowly rolled his head over to look at him. He didn't want to talk, and a small, distant part of him was angry at Alfred for making him. "I don't..."

"If you don't want to talk, what do you want? What can I do to make this easier for you? Say the word."

Tim rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling. He could feel Alfred's warmth against his hip. "I don't want to get out of bed."

"You're depressed, and no wonder. You have every right to be."

"No, I'm weak. I'm an idiot."

"You are a child who has been badly mistreated. You are wounded in soul and spirit, and you will need time and treatment to recover. There's nothing wrong with you, and this was not your fault. Not a bit of it."

Tears suddenly welled up in Tim's eyes. "People keep saying that," he said dully. "But I can't believe it. I just keep thinking about all of my mistakes. There were so many."

"Everyone makes mistakes, my dear. Especially young people. It is the duty of adults to bear with the mistakes young people make and guide them and protect them to the best of their ability. Your father failed in his duty to you. You did not fail him. You have failed no one."

"I did, though. I feel like I failed everyone."

"I know it's hard to see right now, but your feelings are not reality. You are entitled to your hurt and your anger and your grief. You have lost something enormous, something important to you, and you will need time to mourn and to mend. But the way you keep tearing at yourself, pouring more and more wounds into your already bruised and bloody heart, that needs to stop. It needs to stop this instant."

Tim's tears overflowed and rolled down his temples into the pillow. "I don't know how," he half-choked, half-sobbed. "I don't know how to stop, Alfred."

"Then you must let us help you, dear boy. That's why we're here."

The next thing Tim knew, he was sitting up in bed, and Alfred's arms were wrapped around him, crushing him to his chest while Tim sobbed and sobbed, soaking his immaculately pressed dress shirt with hot, messy tears.

"I'm sorry," he blubbered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Apology not accepted," Alfred said firmly, "but only because you have nothing to apologize for."

Tim almost laughed. It was so surreal.

"I don't know what to do." He rubbed his face on Alfred's shirt. It felt like a confession of sin. "I can't handle this. It's too much."

"That is perfectly understandable and perfectly natural. You have suffered a great deal in the past little while, indeed for most of your life, and yesterday was particularly trying. You had a great shock, and it forced you to confront feelings and hurts that you have denied for a very long time. It's not a wonder that you are overwhelmed now and wish you could simply shut everything down again."

Tim's crying slowed, and he leaned limply on Alfred's shoulder, his body jerking with small sobs at regular intervals. Everything Alfred was saying made sense, from a logical perspective. It wasn't anything Tim had had to think about before. "Yes," he murmured, his throat thick and clogged with phlegm. His head ached even more now. "I want it to go away. I don't want to think about this anymore."

Alfred's cheek nestled against the side of his head. His arms were still firm around Tim's torso. "I understand. But it's healthy for you to have these feelings now. It's healthy for you to express them. I'm honored that you felt safe enough to express them with me. Please don't lock them away again."

Tim sniffled into his shirt. Alfred so rarely asked for something, always giving and giving instead, that it was hard to deny him. Tim really, really wanted to get rid of these feelings, somehow, just stop thinking, stop hurting, but Alfred had asked him not to do that. So he guessed he wouldn't. He'd cried enough that he felt dull and tired again, so at least the feelings were a bit muted.

"I still don't know what to do," he murmured.

Alfred squeezed him tighter for a second, then pulled back and held his shoulders in his hands. Tim was shocked to realized that Alfred looked misty, too. He could count the times he'd seen tears in Alfred's eyes on one hand. One finger, really.

"For now, why don't you get dressed and come downstairs? I'll make you some tea and a light breakfast. You need to replenish yourself after that storm. After that, you should rest. I have no doubt that Master Dick will wish to cuddle you most ferociously. You can talk to Master Bruce, too. I believe I can speak for all three of us when I say that we are at your disposal, Master Tim."

Tim's heart gave a flutter at that. Alfred sounded utterly certain, utterly sincere. But it was just...so strange. Tim's father had never been "at his disposal." He'd rarely even been available. When Tim wanted to talk to him (or to his mother, once upon a time), he had to wait for Jack to have an opening. Had to wait for him to have nothing else to do, and then maybe, _maybe,_ if Tim was quick enough, he could slip in and get a word with him. It rarely worked out. Jack was just always so busy, had so many important things to do.

But here was Alfred, who apparently had nothing better to do then check on Tim on a Saturday morning, then hold him and let him cry on him until his shirt was covered with snot and tears. Except that wasn't true. Alfred had lots of better things to do. He _chose_ to do this, to come and sit with Tim and comfort him while he cried like a toddler with a stubbed toe.

And now he was saying that Dick and Bruce were the same. That they would want to be with Tim. That they would deliberately make time to cuddle with him or talk to him. It just sounded...so foreign. Tim almost couldn't imagine that being true.

But when he looked back over the past couple of weeks that he'd been living in Wayne Manor, he had to acknowledge that it _was_ true, at least as far as he could tell. Dick wasn't always here, but when he was, he always wanted to hang out with Tim. He was free with hugs and snuggling, of course, that was just who Dick was, but it had become even more pronounced since that awful night when Tim's life changed so abruptly and radically.

Bruce kept taking the time to check up on Tim, too. Every day, he'd asked him how he was feeling, if he was still in pain, all that kind of stuff. Tim had assumed that he was just keeping tabs on Tim's health so he'd know when he could return to being Robin, but thinking back to the look on Bruce's face... That wasn't just the concern of a boss. Of a mentor. It was a lot deeper than that. Bruce was tentative, a little awkward and unsure in his interactions with Tim, but he was persistent. He _cared._

If nothing else, yesterday should have proved that. Bruce hadn't come looking for him on that rooftop because he needed Robin. He hadn't sent _Superman_ to find him because he needed Robin. It was like Clark had said—Batman only asked Superman for help with world-ending catastrophes or one of his kids being missing.

Bruce thought of him as his _kid._ Like Dick. Like Jason. It was a dizzying realization.

He didn't wait for Tim to come to him. He kept coming after him instead. Over the past couple of weeks, and indeed for the entire time they'd known each other, Tim had avoided talking to Bruce about anything deep or personal. He hadn't wanted to bother him or annoy him, but now he wondered. If he went to Bruce, even when he seemed to be in the middle of something else, and said he needed to talk...would Bruce brush him off? Would he tell him he was busy and they could talk later, then never follow through on that promise? Or would he stop, look at Tim, listen to him, pay attention to him? If Tim asked him for advice, as he had so desperately longed to ask for advice on the Ariana situation, would Bruce try? Even if his advice wasn't very good, or just a guess, would he at least _try?_

It was an experiment for another day, perhaps. Today, Tim was exhausted. His emotions felt like a wet rag that had been viciously wrung out. His head hurt, and he wanted tea. He wanted the warmth of Alfred's kitchen, the smothering solidity of Dick's hugs. He wanted to rest and not worry and just...be.

He nodded and sniffed, hard. "I'll get dressed and come downstairs. Thank you, Alfred. For...for everything."

Alfred smiled and squeezed his shoulders. "Anytime, my dear boy. Anytime at all."

* * *

**A/N:** After Dana visited and talked to Alfred about emotional abuse and recommended that they get Tim into therapy, Alfred did research and read some books. He's already lost one grandson to emotional problems caused by childhood trauma and abusive parenting, and he's damn well not going to lose another one.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **If you ever want to find me, I'm on tumblr as maychorian. You can drop me an ask there anytime. I'm much quicker at answering asks on tumblr than comments here.

So here you go, the longest chapter yet. I hope you enjoy. I think this kind of finishes up the current arc of this story. Future chapters will probably be after time skips. I'm already thinking about a chapter for Jason, so yeah, that will probably be coming.

* * *

"Bruce, can I talk to you?" Tim's voice was soft, almost swallowed up by the cold, expansive air of the Batcave.

Bruce looked up from the computer. He'd been trying to work on a case, but in actuality he never really stopped thinking about ways to wreak vengeance on Jack Drake. There were quite a few things he could do. He had already, very spitefully, called over to Jack's new landlord in Australia and convinced him to drop Jack's lease at the last minute, so Jack would arrive at his new home only to discover that he needed to find another place to live immediately. It was a stupid and uncouth kind of revenge, and Bruce had regretted his actions the second he hung up the phone. But he didn't take it back.

He considered all kinds of actions he could take to ruin Jack financially or destroy his reputation. He could get him blacklisted in academic circles, causing Jack to lose the one thing he valued the most: his career as an archaeologist. He'd been daydreaming about that one for the last...Bruce glanced at the clock...twenty-seven minutes.

But really, it always circled around to imagining his fist crashing into Jack's stupid smug face, permanently wiping away that cruel twist to his lips, that self-pitying wrinkle of his nose.

Bruce took a deep breath and looked at Tim. He couldn't think about that now. Tim had come down to the Batcave to talk to him. Whatever it was about, it was far more important than anything else Bruce could possibly be working on.

"Of course, Tim. What can I do for you?" Bruce pushed himself away from the computer and turned his chair to face the boy. He frowned at the large circles around Tim's eyes, the pallor of his face, the weary way he slumped where he stood with his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans.

Last night, Dick had tried to drag Tim into a movie or TV marathon so he could cuddle with him on a sofa and try to soothe away all of the hurt and sadness in the kid's posture and expression. He had waggled his eyebrows at Bruce, too, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was expected to join them. But Tim had begged off, saying that he was tired and just wanted to sleep. Dick had let him go, reluctantly.

It was midmorning, now. Bruce had hoped that Tim was sleeping in, recovering from his ordeal the day before. Now he wondered if Tim had slept at all. He looked exhausted, but his hair was disheveled and stuck up on one side, so he must have at least been lying down.

Bruce stood up, not bothering to shut down the computer. "Lets go talk somewhere more comfortable. The family lounge?"

Tim blinked, then nodded slowly. Bruce walked over to join him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as he led the way to the elevator. Tim was stiff in his hold at first, but slowly relaxed as they continued to walk and Bruce did not let go.

They settled down in the family lounge, Bruce pulling Tim down to sit next to him on the sofa. Tim shifted in his grasp until Bruce let go of him and drew back. Tim pulled his legs up to sit cross-legged on the sofa and turned his body to face him, his arms wrapping around his chest in a self-protective gesture. Bruce took in how nervous and uncomfortable he looked, then scooted back a few inches to give him more space. The last thing he wanted to do was make Tim feel pressured.

Tim took a shaky breath. "Thanks for...um...for taking the time to talk to me."

"Anytime," Bruce said. "I know I have a tendency to get caught up in my work, so you might have to poke me kind of hard sometimes. But if you need to talk, anytime, about anything, I'll always be available to you."

Tim stared sideways at the floor, his cheeks flushing. It made him look peaky, a little ill. Bruce tried not frown.

"What did you want to talk about?"

Tim hesitated, then laughed awkwardly and scrubbed his hand through his hair. His eyes darted to Bruce's face, then away again. "I don't, uh... I don't know. I guess I just wanted to see if you would."

Bruce sat up straighter, unconsciously squaring his shoulders. This had been a test. Tim had come down and asked Bruce to talk to him just to see if he would let himself be interrupted, if he would pay attention to Tim and listen to his needs. He had wanted to see if Bruce would be different than his father.

Again came that phantom image of his fist slamming into Jack Drake's stupid face.

Tim hugged himself harder, rocking slightly where he sat. Bruce didn't like that at all. "I'm sorry, I... I'm wasting your time. You can go back to what you were doing. Solving crimes and saving people, right?" He offered a crooked little smile. "That's gotta be a lot more important."

"Tim." Bruce's voice went low, a little dark. He bent down and tried to catch the boy's eye, and Tim finally saw him and stared back, transfixed. "Timothy. You are important. You are important to me. You're not wasting my time. Talking to you, being with you, is never a waste of time. There is nowhere else I would rather be in this moment."

Tim stared back at him for a moment longer. Then sudden tears sprang to his eyes, and he broke off and pressed his hands to his face to hide them away. His shoulders were hunched, his posture stiff, almost tortured. "Sorry. I... I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for." Bruce's fingers twitched. He was not a demonstrative man, at least not as much as Dick would like him to be. His eldest had scolded him plenty of times over the years for being too slow to show his affection, too reluctant to reach out and touch, to say the words. But right now Tim was like a beacon, flaring his desperate need for reassurance. Bruce would have to be blind not to see it.

He wanted to hug him, but he was unaccountably afraid. He had a feeling like they were teetering at the edge of a precipice, a vast gulf yawning below. He didn't want to push too far, didn't want to knock Tim over that edge.

Maybe he should get Dick. Dick would know what to do. He would be able to hug Tim and smother him with affection the way Tim so obviously needed.

But no. Tim had asked for him. He had wanted to talk to him. Bruce had to do his duty. He had see his way through, figure out how to help his new son in whatever way Tim needed.

"Tim." Bruce's voice was much softer now. He wanted to cradle the boy in his voice, if he couldn't use his arms to do so. "Timmy. What do you need from me."

Tim was still and silent, sniffing quietly behind his hands. Bruce sat there, waiting. He was used to waiting on rooftops on stakeouts for long, long hours, still as statue, watching for the right moment, for even a single piece of information that might help him break a case. He could wait that long for a child, too. For his child, most of all.

After what seemed like a long time, Tim swallowed thickly. He scrubbed at his face, then dared to lower his hands and look back at Bruce. His eyes still glistened with tears, and his expression was hesitant. But he faced Bruce bravely, even so. Bruce was so proud of him in that moment that he wanted to cheer, wanted to break out in applause. But he just sat there, waiting.

Tim opened his mouth, then paused. Bruce gave him a small smile in encouragement. He didn't move a muscle.

"I guess there is...there is one thing I'm wondering."

Bruce nodded slowly. "Go on."

"I just..." Tim stared at him so earnestly, it was like looking into the sun. "I want to know what you expect from me, I guess."

Bruce blinked. "What?"

Tim shifted nervously, but held his ground. "What do you want from me? I think... I think where things went wrong between me and my dad is that I never really understood what he wanted from me. If I had realized how important it was that I be respectful and pay attention to him, maybe I wouldn't have screwed up so bad that night. If I had known..."

Tim shook his head and looked away. "No. I should have known. I should have figured it out. I'm smarter than that. I don't know why I didn't..."

He cut himself off and looked back to Bruce. "Never mind. I just... I don't want to mess up like that ever again. So maybe if you could just...tell me? That way I'll know. What you want from me. So I won't screw it up."

Bruce was flabbergasted. His heart was beating hard in his chest, burning and aching and squeezing at the same time. "What I want from you?"

Tim nodded. "Yeah. I know I'm not...I'm not your son. You have custody of me, but you can't adopt me, not with my dad still alive and his parental rights not completely severed. I'm not even really your foster kid, since it didn't happen through the state. I'm just..."

It was Bruce's turn to stare in silence. He had no idea what to say to this.

Tim took a deep breath. "But I know that I am your...your kid. In some sense. In a way that matters to you. Mr. Kent made me understand that, yesterday. And Alfred this morning, too..."

He puffed up his cheeks and blew the air out through pursed lips, as if he was trying to purge his nervousness. "So yeah. I just, I just want to understand what you expect from me, now that I'm living with you, so I can give you that. So I can be the...the kid you want me to be."

Bruce wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to pummel Jack Drake in his stupid, smug, cruel, self-centered, child-abusing face, drop him to the ground, then kick him until he stopped moving.

More than that, though, he wanted to hold this boy. This kid, his kid, his son, no matter what the law or the world or his biological father had to say about it. He wanted to hold him and never let go, wanted to hold him tight enough to squeeze out his self-deprecation, his sadness, his misunderstanding of who he was and what he was worth.

"What I want you to be?" Bruce's voice was a mere wisp. Tim looked startled at the sound. Bruce reached out, and his hands were trembling.

Tim sat still, watching them come with his mouth hanging open and eyes wide. His arms around his chest slackened and slid down his torso. He didn't know what this was. He didn't know how to react.

Bruce cupped his hands around his face, holding Tim's head carefully in his hands. Tim sat stock still, barely breathing as he stared into Bruce's face.

"Tim, you are right in some ways but very, very wrong in others. Yes, you are my kid. You are my son. I don't care what anyone else says about it. You're mine, you belong to me, and I will never, ever let you go.

"But asking what I want you to be... What a question." Bruce laughed, short and dry and completely lacking in amusement. "What a clear and undeniable indictment of what your father has done to you. I can't... I can't bear it. The fact that you think that, that you believe that..."

Bruce had to stop and close his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose. He was still trembling, not just his hands but his whole body. It was rage that sparked through him, that lit up every muscle, but it had nowhere to go. Jack was not here. He was untouchable, in that way.

He could feel Tim's stillness, the short, unsteady puffs of his breath. He was frightening him. He couldn't do that.

Bruce opened his eyes and looked at the wide-eyed boy. He stroked his thumbs over his cheeks, then slowly, carefully slid his hands down to hold his shoulders instead. He needed to get this through to him. He _needed_ Tim to understand what he was about to say.

"Being my son, being my kid... Being _anyone's_ son, _anyone's_ kid... You should never, never be asking who that person wants you to be or what you have to make yourself become in order to earn your guardian's respect and attention and...and love. That's not how it's supposed to work, Tim. That's not how any of this is supposed to work. You shouldn't have to earn attention. You shouldn't have to earn love. That should be given to you. Freely. Because you need it and deserve it, and for no other reason."

Tim's eyes were bright with tears again. He didn't raise his hands, didn't try to hide it. He just sat there and watched Bruce's face, fascinated, disbelieving.

"It's not what I want _from_ you, kiddo. There's nothing I want _from_ you except for you...for you to keep being yourself, I suppose. For you to grow and learn and become the man you want to be, the man you're supposed to be. Things I want _for_ you, though... There are a lot of those.

"I want you to be happy. I want you to feel safe. I want you to heal from all of the abuse that your parents heaped on you, all of the misconceptions and bad habits you drove into yourself in an attempt to please people who could not be pleased. I want you to be confident and proud of yourself, because you've accomplished so much, Tim, in such a short time, and I'm so proud of you. You deserve to be proud, too, you deserve to be happy with yourself and the person you are right now, as well as the person you're becoming. I want you to stop putting yourself down and...and blaming yourself for things that are not your fault.

"That's what I want the most of all, at least right this moment. I want you to stop blaming yourself for what happened between you and your father. It wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault. I understand why you feel like you screwed up, but you didn't. And I know what he said to you yesterday made it even worse, driving that poison deep into your mind, and I wish I could destroy him for that. You know what I was doing, when you came down into the cave and interrupted me?"

Tim shook his head, his expression still utterly fascinated.

Bruce chuckled, short and sharp. "I wasn't working on a case, unfortunately. I wasn't trying to solve crimes and save the innocent. I was daydreaming about punching Jack Drake in the face. I'm sorry, I wish I could give some other, more noble report, and I hope it doesn't disturb you too much to hear it, but that's the truth. I've been daydreaming about it ever since that night when I came over to talk to you and...and found you like that."

Tim closed his eyes, and tears ran down his cheeks. Bruce clenched his jaw. Maybe he shouldn't have said that. He knew that Tim still loved his father, and probably always would, no matter how little Jack deserved it.

"Tim, I'm going to hug you now, okay? Just let me know if it makes you uncomfortable."

Tim nodded jerkily. Bruce leaned forward, achingly slow and careful, ready to stop the instant Tim flinched away or showed discomfort. But he managed to pull the boy into his arms, pressing him against his chest, and he ducked his head down to bury his nose in his hair. Tim was stiff in his embrace at first, his shoulders trembling, then abruptly went limp. He all but melted into Bruce's hold, his arms hesitantly moving to circle Bruce's waist in return.

Bruce locked his jaw to keep from crying. The boy was so small in his arms. So young and vulnerable and infinitely valuable, infinitely precious. He didn't understand how anyone could hurt this sweet boy who only ever wanted to help, who only ever tried to make things better for other people.

Jack Drake was the idiot to beat all other idiots. Not only had he lost his chance to be in Tim's life, in the end he had given it up willingly. What a colossal, unbelievable, irredeemable moron.

Well, Jack's loss was Bruce's gain. Again, Bruce felt that spark of triumph in his chest, in his heart. Tim was his now, and he was never, ever giving him up.

He could feel the way Tim was holding himself back from crying, the tension in his face pressed against Bruce's side, the awkward way he held his shoulders. He recognized it because he felt it in himself, frequently. He wished he could explain to Tim that he didn't have to hold back. That his emotion was welcome, that it would be greeted with understanding and compassion, not dismissal.

"I love you, Tim," he murmured. "I didn't want to say it before, because I thought it might be too soon. I didn't want you to feel pressured to express something you might not truly feel. That's still true, but I think you need to hear me say it. I love you so, so much, and I hate your father for not loving you enough, for not loving you the way he was supposed to. You deserve so much better. You deserve the world, and I want to give it to you."

And that was it. Bruce had run out of words, possibly for the rest of the month. He couldn't remember the last time he had expressed so much, in such a short amount of time.

Tim's shoulders shook, and Bruce felt his tears soaking into his shirt. He wrapped his arms around him a little tighter and closed his eyes. After a couple of minutes, Tim regained control of himself and pulled back slightly, sniffling. "Do you...do you really mean it?"

"Yes." The response was instant. Bruce considered briefly, then spoke again. "Which part are you questioning?" Whatever it was, he would be happy to repeat himself until Tim believed him.

Tim drew back enough to look at him, though he still sitting closer than before. His eyes were rimmed with red, his face wet with tears. Bruce reached out without thinking and rubbed his thumb over his cheek, trying to wipe it away.

Tim's lip wobbled. "Are you really proud of me?"

Bruce blinked. It seemed that he could pull up more words, after all. "Tim, I've always been proud of you. Ever since we met, since you first started training with me. You've always been such a hard worker. You're very talented, though in a different way than your predecessors. Have I not told you that before?"

He was almost certain that he had, especially after harsh workouts when Tim had given everything he had and was panting and covered with sweat. Bruce distinctly remembered clapping him on the back and telling him he had done well before sending him to take a shower. Was it a false memory, blending in with his memories of training with Dick...or Jason? He hoped not.

Tim shook his head and scrubbed his fingers over his face, leaving red streaks on his skin. "No, not Robin. I know I'm a good Robin. I know you're proud of Robin. But me. Tim Drake. Are you really proud of Tim?" His voice cracked on the last word.

Bruce was baffled. "Am I proud of Tim?" He hadn't realized there was distinction. He didn't at all like what that question implied. "Of course. More than I could possibly say."

"But... I'm not. I don't really like Tim Drake, to be honest. He's so stupid. He's a bad student. He couldn't help his girlfriend. He screws up his commitments. He can't even... Even his _dad_ hates him."

Bruce felt chills creep across his back, listening to Tim talk about himself in the third person. And there was such loathing in his voice, such disgust. It was incredibly disturbing.

"Tim, stop," he finally interrupted, an edge of sharpness in his voice.

Tim stopped and blinked up at him, biting his lip.

"First off, I'm your dad now," Bruce said sternly. "And I love you. I love Tim Drake. I could never hate you."

Tim swallowed hard, but managed a nod.

"And yes, I am proud of you. All of you. Tim, Robin, all of it. You're amazing. You're the best...just the best kid. I don't know how else to say it. You're brave and kind and... And I can't imagine my life without you. I don't want to."

Tim's face screwed up, and the tears came again. Bruce pulled him back to his chest, and Tim went willingly.

"And you know what's the most amazing, the bravest thing you ever did?" Bruce murmured to him. "That night when you called me, after what your father did to you. I know you were scared. You didn't know what was going to happen, and you were terrified of losing everything. But you called me anyway, and I couldn't be more proud or more happy that you did. And that was all Tim Drake. Robin had nothing to do with it."

Tim turned his head and rested his ear over Bruce's heart. "It was because of my training," Tim murmured. "I knew it was wrong. I tried to justify it to myself, but I kept remembering what you had taught me, and I knew I couldn't let it go."

"Good." Bruce squeezed him tight. "I'm glad I was able to help you. I'm glad you knew it was wrong. I just wish you could convince yourself that none of it was your fault, either."

Tim nodded sluggishly and let himself be held. Bruce was content to sit there for the rest of the day if that was what Tim needed.

After what felt like a long time, yet still not long enough, Tim heaved a sigh and leaned away. Bruce let him go, though he couldn't resist reaching out to brush the rumpled hair away from Tim's face. His cheeks were flushed, though no longer tear-streaked. He looked tired, but clear-eyed and much more at peace.

"I'd like to flip the script, if that's okay," Bruce said.

Tim looked up at him, blinking slowly. His face was curious, but not apprehensive, a questioning tilt to his mouth.

Bruce smiled. "What do you expect from me? I'm your parent now, and I want to give you everything need. What can I do to make you feel happier and more comfortable here?"

Tim looked embarrassed. "You don't...you don't have to change anything. It's already... Living here, with you, is already more than I ever asked for."

"I know. You never ask for anything for yourself. But it's okay, you know. It's okay to want things. It's okay to ask for them. I want to give things to you. I want you to have everything you need and want."

Tim wrapped his arms around his chest, but it seemed more thoughtful now, not self-protective. "I don't know. I can't think of anything."

Bruce chucked his chin. "Come on. There must be something. Ask your boon, up to half my kingdom."

He kept his voice light, joking, but he meant it. He'd already set up a meeting with his lawyers to write Tim into his will, since he assumed Jack would disinherit him formally as soon as he had a chance. And anyway, he was still contemplating the best way to leave Jack completely destitute, so he might not even have anything to leave to Tim.

He half-expected Tim to ask for a new computer, or new equipment for their night life. Maybe a sports car he could drive as Tim Drake, instead of Robin. Tim had always had a deep love for things that went fast.

But after contemplating the offer for a few moments, Tim met Bruce's eyes, forthright and certain. "I think I need to go to therapy."

Bruce blinked. That was the last thing he would have expected. "Okay..." he said slowly. He had tried therapy a few times himself, during his more serious tries at being "normal" before he fed himself entirely to the Batman persona. It had never seemed to work for him, maybe because he could never be completely honest about his issues.

He had nothing against therapy, certainly. He knew it worked for some people. And he had bitterly regretted not forcing Jason to go, in the end. He'd always given in to the boy's angry declarations that he was fine, he wasn't broken, he didn't need it. Even though he clearly had.

But here was Tim, who sadly had far too much in common with Jason, in the end. Though they had grown up in very different demographics, different social classes, they had both suffered parental abuse and the hardship of being alone. Bruce would be a fool to overlook that, or to discourage Tim's efforts to get healthy.

"Okay," he said more enthusiastically, with a proud smile. "I will definitely make sure that happens. It's very wise of you to be willing to do that. But there has to be something else you want."

Tim shook his head. "No, I'm fine. Really, Bruce. I have everything I could want right here."

And well, that was adorable. Bruce sorely wanted to crush the kid to his chest again. Instead he poked Tim's stomach, making him squeal and double over, arms flaring out. "What about a sports car, huh? Are you sure you don't want a nice, fast car? Maybe in shiny red?"

He tickled Tim's side, reveling in his startled laughter, then pretended to reconsider. "Actually, maybe Dick needs a new car, I could ask him instead..."

"No, no!" Tim laughed breathlessly and grabbed Bruce's hand with both of his to make him stop tickling him. "I changed my mind! I want a car!"

Bruce grinned devilishly and tickled him with his other hand instead. "Are you sure? Shopping is going to be such a pain. We're going to have to look at all sorts of models, go on test drives, look into the features, sign a bunch of paperwork..." He sighed in pretended exasperation. "I'm sure you have much better things to do with your weekend."

Tim kept trying to fend him off and failing, until he finally collapsed against the back of the sofa, laughing helplessly. "No, I do, I do! I want to go shopping with you!"

Bruce backed off, smiling so wide it hurt a little. It felt good, after all of the pain and heartache of the last few weeks, to see Tim giggling like the child he should be. "Are you sure? This is going to be a car for Tim Drake, not Robin. Robin is not allowed."

Tim sobered, leaning limply against the back of the sofa. He was still smiling, though more softly, and his eyes were bright. "Yeah, I'd like that. I really would."

Bruce put his arm around his shoulders and pulled him to his feet, and they left the lounge walking side by side. Bruce and Tim. Tim and Bruce.

They found Dick in the hallway, loitering around with a gentle smile on his face and the evidence of tears in his eyes. Bruce knew he'd been listening in, and Tim was no doubt smart enough to see it, too.

But Tim just gave him a happy smile. "Hi, Dick! Wanna go car shopping with us?"

Dick's grin broadened, and he ruffled Tim's hair so hard that he squeaked in protest and hid behind Bruce to get away from him. "Yeah, little brother," he said, with a brief, proud smile at Bruce, too. "I'd like that a lot."

So they went, and for a few hours, they left everything else behind.


End file.
